


In a World Gone Astray

by ValloryRussups



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 99 per cent of characters are scheming, BAMF Harry, Dark!Harry, Death Eater!Harry, F/F, F/M, Light Magic is strong as fuck, M/M, Manipulation, Manipulative!Harry, and Harry has it, d/s dynamics, slight BDSM
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-27
Updated: 2017-10-04
Packaged: 2017-12-24 20:41:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 48,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/944428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ValloryRussups/pseuds/ValloryRussups
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An "ordinary" Death Eater, Harry hides his true self to survive in this world ruled by the murderer of his parents. On his way to revenge, he schemes, kills, uses unwitting people, plays games with people far superior in social standing. He doesn't have anything to lose, and the path he is walking looks clear and uncomplicated.</p>
<p>Until the Dark Lord himself takes an interest in him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I'm Not Broken, But You Can Try to Fix Me Anyway

_Screams. His father’s._

_They accompanied them all the way to Harry’s room, into which his mother barged with him in tow. Looking around wildly, she scuttled to the half-open wardrobe and slammed the doors closed after them. They didn’t have the protection of magic; a frighteningly grinning man had wrenched the wand out of Harry’s mother’s hands earlier._

_Harry felt his Mummy’s heart beat wildly against his ear as he pressed himself to her with all his might. The wardrobe was stuffy and too cluttered and small. Claustrophobically small. The walls pressed in on them, and Harry wished with all his strength to get out of there._

_Alas, they couldn’t. Not yet._

_Not when the bad men his Mummy had talked about had barged in and started razing to the ground the normalcy in the Potter household._

_Harry had difficulty breathing; his mother’s long dress got in his nose, so he whimpered to show his distress. His mother, Lily, rushed to clamp his mouth shut and embraced him tighter, rocking them both back and forth as much as was possible in the tiny space they were stuck in._

_“Hush,” she whispered tearfully, clutching him tighter. Harry would have missed the words if he hadn’t been so close to her, his ear right next to her mouth and funnily tingling when she spoke. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. Just stay calm, please, we- We will pull through. I promise you.”_

_“Where is Daddy?” Harry asked and didn’t understand from where the drops falling on his cheeks had come. Locks of his mother’s brilliant red hair descended to his face, shielding his eyes from the tiny creak in the wardrobe doors that was the only source of light and air._

_“He- He will come soon. He must.”_

_He frowned at her tone. He had never heard his proud, strong mother sound this tearful and crushed. It felt wrong, somehow._

_“Why are you crying?” he asked, small forehead scrunched up in puzzlement as he reached with his arm to wipe away her tears. “Don’t, Mummy. If you don’t stop, I will be sad, too.”_

_“I love you honey,” she murmured instead and pressed a tender kiss against his knuckles._

_“What do these people want with you?” Harry asked. Despite his age, he comprehended that no people broke into other people’s houses, caused ruckus there, and waved their wands around threateningly. Wands were serious business, his father had drilled into him time and time again._

_“Your father and I... We decided to do what is right instead of what is expected,” his Mummy whispered into his hair, clutching him tighter with every word spoken. “Remember, Harry. Always follow your heart, no matter the cost. This way, you will never fall victim to their manipulations. This way, even if they twist your heart and mind, you will find the way out. To the Light. To the loyalty and goodness.”_

_She traced a finger across his narrow chest, pointing it right at the place his heart was beating against._

_“I don’t understand,” Harry mumbled, feeling his eyes droop. He was getting sleepy, and yet his mother didn’t show any signs of leaving their refuge._

_Refuge. What a frightening word._

_Harry didn’t understand. He understood nothing in the whole situation, and the fact swung him into the pits of despair, which only deepened at his father’s continuing absence. They didn’t hear him anymore, too far away from where they had left him, from where he had shouted at them to run._

_“Someday, you will-“_

_She didn’t get to finish the sentence. A loud explosion interrupted her starting speech and she brought him closer. Harry held back his breathing. A premonition churned in his stomach uncomfortably, just like those explosions. Neither of them talked, and red hair was still clouding his vision._

_Red, red, red._

_Everything he could see, those red ruins of broken reality._

_“Where the fuck are they?” a rough voice growled. Its animalistic quality reminded Harry of Uncle Remus, the quieter friend of his parents. He shivered. “Don’t tell me we came ‘ere for nothin’!”_

_“Shut up, Greyback,” another male voice snapped, this one milder and softer. “You got to kill the man. Now you can boast of having murdered the famous Head of Law Enforcement Department.”_

_Harry’s mother trembled violently against his body, and he took her hands in his as covertly as possible, giving her comfort. The tumultuous thoughts in his own mind were all blending together in a tornado of barely comprehensive scraps of conscious._

_Surely, those men weren’t talking about his father?_

_“Should’ave tortured him,” Greyback grumbled. Steps resounded throughout the room. Why did the echo sound so ominous? “Think the woman’s still ‘ere?”_

_“We have warded the entire house. Neither Apparition nor emergency portkeys function here. Crabbe and Goyle are at the door, so she can’t have escaped this way either.”_

_“Crabbe and Goyle... Blasted skrewts are smarter than those two put together.”_

_“Don’t sweat it. Where do all people usually hide while in their rooms? Where is the place that a woman could stuff both herself and the child in?”_

_“Under the bed?”_

_“No, you nitwit! Here!”_

_“Prepare, Harry,” his mother murmured to him just as hurried steps neared them. The doors swung open and the sudden burst of light hurt his eyes._

_“Ha! Found you!”_

_But Harry didn’t pay attention to the insanely wide grin on the thin lips, nor to the blinding light. His whole world was concentrated on his mother’s breathy words smashing straight into his soul with the infallible conviction lacing them._

_“I won’t let them take you away. I promise.”_

_With that, she charged._

***

Harry’s hand sprang up to grasp thin air. A scream died down in his throat. Not for the first time, Harry thanked Merlin for his vast knowledge of silencing charms. This area of magic had become a faithful friend to him throughout his Hogwarts years, throughout the many cruel instances of dreamless nights before the school.

“Not again,” he groaned, covering his face with both hands. Thin limbs shook, but no tears fell. The tears had abandoned him long ago, when nightmares became normal. Nothing wobbled him anymore now. “Father... Mother... Why can’t you stop haunting me, after all these years?”

The question was rhetoric. They had been traitors. Traitors didn't deserve burials, so there was no grave to give him answers.

But Harry knew the solution anyway. His heartbeat thrummed with it.

Their spirits craved blood, the blood of a certain murderer, and Harry had made it his life’s ambition to fulfil the unspoken promise and provide it.

He pushed himself up, opting to mindlessly sit in his bed for a few more minutes, to gather his wits and slip on a mask of nonchalance and blankness. The everyday procedure.

Moving to put his slippers on and go to the bathroom, Harry winced at the pain that pierced through his leg like a lightning bolt. Late private trainings to boost up his duelling prowess could do that to a person. Practising duelling spells and battle tactics all night long, till the early hours when he had absolutely no choice but to sleep if he didn’t wish to feel like something dead, had been a mistake.

 _Ha. As if I_ don’t _feel like something dead every second of my life anyway._

The bitterness was nothing new. Neither was the surge of anger, hopelessness, hatred, and resentment, all mixed in the intertwining strands that made up the foundation of his ideology and searing desire to see the man who had torn away his peaceful life dead and six feet under.

 _But soon,_ Harry’s subconscious whispered as the teen washed the tiredness off his body under the streams of soothing cool water, _soon. They think me as pliable and submissive as the rest, but the Death Munchers, along with their deranged leader, have a nasty surprise coming._

Passing by a mirror, Harry stopped to flick a glance in its direction. Waist-long blackest hair imaginable. Expressive Killing Curse green eyes. Average height and a thin, deceptively inconspicuous layer of muscle.

Harry supposed he was beautiful. It was a pity that any relationship failed the moment the other party found out his blood status and parentage. That his parents had betrayed the Dark Lord His official state as an orphan and the charge of the notorious Bellatrix Lestrange herself – Harry’s eyes flashed at the remembrance of the woman – didn’t add him any charm either, in this society built on money, power, and blind worship.

A sneer twisted the young man’s features. He balled his fists.

_Fools, all of them._

His heart burnt with hatred for this violent monster, whom their sheep-like world followed like they would a shepherd. Their bedazzlement reached as far as to turn wizards into similar beasts, void of compassion and proudly arguing that emotions were only for the weak. People glorified tales of murder and misery, adored foul play, and sneered at whatever precious grains of light still existed in the world.

The older wizards and witches passed this mindset on to their children, and each time the future generation grew crueller than the one preceding it.

“And I am a victim of this rotten environment,” Harry whispered, bringing his hands to touch the smooth, cool surface of the mirror. He leaned in, nose touching the mirror. A bitter smirk tugged at his lips.

No, he wasn't a victim. Harry was a child of the Dark Lord’s regime, too. His innocence had long been lost to the whispering darkness of the Lestrange Manor he lived in, to the cruel red of the last memory of his parents, to the scorching hatred that exploded inside him every time his eyes caught the glimpse of the supreme murderer who reigned over them with a metaphorical crown on his thick brown mane.

Harry took a step back from the mirror. Nose wrinkled in irritation, he reminded himself that he hadn’t come here to watch his own reflection.

 _It starts tomorrow._ He closed his eyes and exhaled. _No, it’s today already._

A grimace twisted his face.

_The branding._

_Oh, joy._

_We will be branded like cattle, forced to bear his claim and act on his wishes. Submit to his every whim._ Here, Harry’s eyes flashed and he shot his mirror reflection a grin full of teeth. Would he allow it? To be a plaything in the immortal hands of a God-wannabe with an over-inflated sense of self?

_No._

_And I Vow, Dark Lord Voldemort, right here and now... I have already sworn devotion to my goal, but it’s time I renew this oath: For the death of my parents and everyone else you butchered in your fits of hysteria, you will pay with your life, and I will drag you down to Hell myself if there is no one else to do it._

After thinking the words, Harry walked back into his bedroom and came to a halt in front of his bed, bending to retrieve his faithful wand from under the pillow. (And yes, it was paranoid to keep it there, but the mistrust in the privacy wards Bella placed was founded).

_Now, it’s time to take the real Vow, I think?_

“ _Verum Promittere_ ,” Harry murmured the words with reverence, his green gaze never leaving the wand. Bright grass-coloured eyes greedily drank in the sight of silvery wisps escaping his wand, all twisting around his wrist in an invisible handcuff, one that would no doubt avenge Harry’s wavering from his beliefs, if such a thing ever came to pass.

Yet he had nothing to fear.

No matter what manipulations the Dark Lord would dish out to haul Harry to his side, once he realised the teen’s true worth, they wouldn’t change his mind about killing the abominable maggots-for-brain maniac whose morals had passed away long ago.

With a deeply held belief in his heart, Harry started preparing for the day.

_Certainty is good. Certainly gives my mind a break from all the turmoil in my life._

***

Slytherin Manor was vastly different from Lestrange Manor Harry had grown up in.

And today, for the special occasion of traditionally branding all the sixth – future seventh – years at Hogwarts, it was lavishly decorated with outstanding artwork, tables of countless delicious dishes, and dark carpets and drapes with elaborate ornaments.

Done in pleasantly soothing greens and blacks and silvers, the ballroom would have delighted Harry, if not for the small fact that the mansion was home to the notorious Dark Lord.

In a muggle neighbourhood.

Little Hangleton, the name was. Or something of the kind. Harry had never centred his attention on this small detail.

It was another proof of the man’s twisted logic. Honestly, who would choose to stay at a place so close to the beings you abhor and kill off on a regular basis?

 _Well, I suppose he does have something to occupy himself with in between planning genocide and world domination_ , Harry thought, sarcasm dripping. _And what can be better than snatching a couple of ignorant muggles from a midnight stroll, show them to the private dungeons, and have a few hours of fun with shackles and his wand-_

_Ouch. I don’t want to even think about how perverted it sounded._

The logical explanation for Voldemort’s desire to live in such a place, the one most people came up with, was that the house was believed to have some connection to Salazar Slytherin himself. In reverent whispers, they rationalised that considering Lord Voldemort was a Parselmouth and the Founder’s heir, he had inherited the familial manor and settled in it, and thus the mansion in Little Hangleton had become a symbol of how a pureblood household should look like.

Harry believed it to be a load of croak.

 _Salazar Slytherin? Living in a_ muggle _neighbourhood? Pfft. Don’t’ make me laugh. The chap would have probably released his mysterious chamber-of-secrets monster on them or slit his own throat to avoid the misery._

Harry didn’t know how people could actually be so foolish as to believe the tall tales the Dark Lord weaved around his former life. Were his fellow wizards so blinded by the twisted splendour offered by the man, or was there something else, some underlying puzzling reason transparent to everyone but him?

Harry didn’t know. Couldn’t tell. And, frankly, didn’t even wish to.

He had long ago lost the will to believe in the existing hope for mankind, but some scrapes of it had stuck to the inner walls of his mind and belief, and the young man didn’t want the remnants of that optimism completely abolished, thank you very much.

“Firewhiskey, Young Master Harry?” a trembling house elf offered, extending a tray so Harry could grab the tumbler.

The young man threw an absent-minded glance at the creature, thought for a second, and stretched out his hand to scope one. Merlin knew he would need it this evening.

No other way he would get through the meeting with the Dark Lord of all monsters without strangling the bastard.

Or, well, attempting to. No one cancelled the Inner Circle and the bunch of random Death Eaters who would protect their master in any scenario.

“Thanks, Twiggy. I’ll call you if I need anything else,” Harry tossed, manoeuvring through the crowd of guests, all ostentatiously dressed and as snobbish as they were wealthy, towards the round tables covered with delicacies-full plates. On his way, he bumped into a dancing couple, and when a flicker of his eyes told him one of them was Malfoy, didn’t waste time in purposely stepping on the blonde’s foot.

“Potter!” the dancing teen hissed. Harry raised a shapely eyebrow. “Trust a blood-traitor to be a bumbling elephant even today!”

“Oh? And today is special how?”

Malfoy gritted his teeth but remained pureblood-stiff, not letting Harry’s deliberate dumb act get to him and smash his carefully nurtured pureblood bearing into pieces. Harry took a casual sip from his tumbler, noting the warmth spreading in his stomach at the liquid. _Getting too drunk isn’t a good idea, though. I’ll need my awareness today. Even if all I want is to throw the caution out the window and get so mindlessly drunk that Bellatrix Avadas herself out of shame for her charge._

Bellatrix.

Without his will guiding them, Harry’s eyes darted to the arched passageway behind which the _crème de la crème_ mingled.

To waltz in there... That, he was too much of a coward to do.

Besides, he had company right now.

Harry’s eyes widened at the realisation before he berated himself and stuffed the poison of conflicting negativity back into the bottled-up state it was jam-packed in. He allowed no emotion bleed through his cool, if vaguely amused, exterior after that.

_Bloody hell- Malfoy! And the damn ferret is attentive, too. Oh well, it’s not like he cares. I should probably have some fun with him before I hurl him back to his date._

Just to watch Malfoy’s reaction, Harry brought his hand up to his mouth and wiped his lips with the sleeve of his simple green dress robe. The gesture covered the sly smile on his face at the horrified grimace that momentarily split Malfoy heir’s features. The blond’s date – some plain pureblood girl Harry wasn’t acquainted with – wasn’t that far behind.

“I thought, Potter, that even in your stuck up hole of the world the news has reached you. If you’re really that far behind the times, I enlighten you: tonight is the great date for all of us, the very peak of our lives-“

Malfoy’s usual drawl morphed into animated tone as wild gesticulation helped him convey just how important this night was, and to emphasise how paltry Harry’s whole existence was in comparison. With a bored expression and sipping on the firewhiskey – _and oh bugger, I think I need another one if he drones on like this for another minute_ – the green-eyed teen was sweeping the vast and elegant ballroom of the Slytherin Manor with a fed-up look.

_Does he ever shut up?_

“-today, we will finally receive the marks of our loyalty – the Dark Mark itself, and don’t you dare ruin my flawless performance in front of the Dark Lord, Potter, or I swear I’ll-“

Malfoy’s date was nodding along to every word the blond uttered, even as he launched into a tirade on the kind of fate awaiting Harry if the orphaned boy indeed dared spoil Dray’s Big Day.

 _I guess I’ll have to help him fight off the verbosity. Seriously, obsessing over the old fossil with megalomaniac tendencies can’t be good for health. Where is Lucius looking?_ Harry asked himself even as he bolted down a rush of resentment for the blond.

Malfoy’s life was so easy in comparison to his, so much lighter and happier... Those concerns of his – to have the Dark Lord’s regard and respect – were childish and naive and idiotic and a thousand other derogatory adjectives Harry could think of, but there was one thing they weren’t: hopeless and cynical.

“I get it, Malfoy. You can save your praises for someone who actually listens,” Harry drawled. He looked into the tumbler where only a second ago the firewhiskey had been splashed, but the blasted thing was dreadfully empty now. “You know, I always find it strange how you superiorly strut around the place with your nose permanently up the air and this annoying my-daddy-has-the-money attitude, but always turn into a worshipful ingénue when this Lord of yours is concerned.”

Harry was jealous. If only _his_ problems were restricted to finding his father’s and Lord’s acceptance... But noo, that was too good to be true for the son of a mudblood and blood traitor.

Malfoy’s face contorted into a dark scowl, and his cheeks coloured with two ugly splotches of red. Harry noted that the colour contrasted greatly both with the baby blue of Malfoy’s fancy robes and with the dark green colours the ballroom was decorated in.

Harry’s lips stretched into a dark smirk as he caught sight of the blond’s shaking hands.

Malfoy seemed to take this as a sign, and, in the bat of an eye, sprang forward to grab the collar of Harry’s dress robe.

Harry’s hand released the tumbler and it broke. The splinters sprinkled across the black marble and fell into whimsical shapes.

A quiet gasp sneaked out past Harry’s lips, but the teen pulled himself together in a jiffy and raised his calm gaze to clash with Malfoy’s hot one.

The date gasped, the sound muffled in the polite din of the ballroom, and Harry glimpsed a few dancing couples halting their smooth movements to stare.

Malfoy turned away for a moment to wave them away.

Everyone got a hint and minded their business.

“Oh. Feisty today, are we, Dray?” Harry almost purred. “You are such a stiff at Hogwarts and elsewhere. Good to see even you can pull a stick out of your arse once in a while and join us, mere humans.”

 _What am I saying?_ Harry vaguely realised that his thoughts were tumbling away from him and no matter how much he grasped for them, they escaped his reach like a leprechaun would a desperate gold-seeker’s. _I’m never this bloody careless in public..._

And then his gaze fell on the splinters of crystal scattered across the floor, and the realisation rushed at him like a tsunami wave.

_Bugger! Shouldn’t have drunk so much firewhiskey. They do say the stuff is highly alcoholic._

Well, no other options but grit his teeth and hope it would pass.

Not to mention Harry had another problem on his hands at the moment.

“You dare?” Malfoy snarled, and while his voice held no ounce of Severus Snape’s velvety danger or Malfoy’s own father’s silky promise of painful social death or Rodolphus Lestrange’s assurance of physical death, Harry realised that he was playing Russian roulette here. “My father is a hand-reach away. Should I call him? Will you be so brave in front of him, too, or hide your tail between your legs how it happened in our childhood?”

The smirk that curled Malfoy’s lips dumped Harry off the cliff of his self-control.

The recollections of his, of _their_ shared childhood all streaked through his mind.

His glassy eyes reflected his past flashing by in his mind, the way Slytherins – not only them, but considering they were his very own House, it had hurt even more – the very wizards who should have stood by him the entire time, had been treating him.

Their hurtful words used to dig into his soul deeper than a Slashing Curse. They enjoyed taunting his orphaned status, the fact that he didn’t have anyone to stand up for him only further alienating him from them. They would clatter around him into a tight ring, and then he would know and hear and listen to nothing more than heavy stones of cruel words thrown at him by childish mouths, and no matter how much he would attempt to shield his ears and just _not hear_ , they would force him to, tearing his hands away and shouting, shouting, always shouting...

He found it unfair that in place of the bright memories of the time spent with his parents, Harry’s earliest recollections were hazy shrouds of spiteful crows of laughter, jibes, and social ruin.

And Malfoy, ignorant of the reminiscence dwelling in Harry’s mind, blathered on.

“This time, I will take over the punishment myself. All summer, I have been under the tutelage of Aunt Bella and Evan Rosier. Believe me, the scars will take a lot of time to heal now. _Much_ more than they used to in our childhood.”

Malfoy smirked.

A slit-eyed, enraged look was all the warning he got as Harry whipped out his wand and jabbed it right under the blond’s neck.

“A word more,” Harry breathed out. His Avada Kedavra-green eyes blazed with dangerous fire. “A word more from you, Malfoy, and you will find out why they call _me_ the best duellist in our year instead of you.”

The aristocrat gulped, and Harry dug the tip of his wand deeper as Malfoy’s Adam’s apple bobbed.

Harry pressed his lips into a tight line and tightened his fingers around his holly wand. _Restraint. Where are you when I so need you?_

And then the flames in Malfoy’s own blue gaze shone brighter with unspoken challenge.

“Mudblood.”

A second later, Harry felt disgusting wetness on his cheek, wetness that immediately tracked down the smooth porcelain skin.

Malfoy had spat at him. _Spat_ at him. Literally. The realisation crashed home. Whatever benevolent ideas Harry might have had this evening all vanished into stardust.

“Crucio,” Harry hissed. No fury in his voice, no useless spittle. This cold calmness trumped any loud proclamations of vengeance and justice. The fear reflected in Malfoy’s face when the teen opened his mouth to fix his mistake only fuelled the bloodthirsty predator in Harry, the one cultivated by Draco’s beloved Auntie Bella when Harry had gotten nothing but harsh life lessons from the woman.

The blond fell back. His whole body twitched and convulsed for a second before his voice tore through the pleasant classical music floating in the ballroom.

Harry’s eyes widened. The people! How could he have been so careless? The firewhiskey and the painful recollections had addled his brain, it seemed, and now he had a teensy problem on his hands.

Namely, the watchful eyes of the spectators, all appalled and astonished and frozen in place, some remaining mid-step in the interrupted dance.

Draco didn’t stop convulsing.

“What is going on?” the voice, cold as the glaciers of Arctic, rang through the room. _No. It’s not possible. He can’t be here right now. He-_ “What are you doing with my son?”

Harry turned his head to the source of the voice. His memory hadn’t failed him. Lucius Malfoy – _bloody Lucius Malfoy!_ – was approaching him and- Oh hell. Was it Dark Lord Voldemort himself trailing not far behind?

“Answer me!” the blond demanded in a low voice.

Harry paled.

 It all plummeted from here.


	2. Come Crumbling Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who reviewed, faved, followed, or plain liked this story! I didn't expect this kind of feedback at all, so while initially this chapter was supposed to be uploaded only on Sunday, you have motivated me to hurry up a bit :)
> 
> Thanks to you all again, and I hope you enjoy reading this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Harry's mind buzzed with emotions, feelings breaking even through the haze of alcohol.

He tried to soothe his heart flapping with the desire to break away from its bony prison. The fear only pushed it harder.

_Voldemort. Bloody Voldemort is here, and the only thing I can do is stand here about to_ _be reprimanded_ _like a naughty child._  Harry paused in his thoughts. A ray of light pushed through the cloud of depression.  _At least, the pureblood prig has got what he deserves._

Meanwhile, Malfoy realised that the curse had stopped. His thrashing broke off, the body suddenly still and subdued, bereft of all its ordinary poise and arrogance. A whimper. Then another one, and once again. Time stilled as the entire ballroom watched with morbid and detached interest the failings of the Malfoy heir.

They wouldn't forget it. Not for a long time, at least.

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry observed as Lucius Malfoy's infuriated expression snapped into view. Yes, there it was, the pulsing vein on the forehead and the thinning lips, familiar to Harry through the lenses of his childhood. Back then, Harry had proclaimed his views,  _his parents' views_ , on muggleborns and muggles to wind up those Malfoy snowmen until their rage melted the ice. Until he got that hint of familiarity, a proof that even icebergs with cores of cause and pureblood belief had feelings mixed in somewhere.

Those experiments would always cost him.

Cost him as much as this latest stunt would, Harry knew.

Then, his resolve spiked, and steeled, and finally morphed into a shield, which protected him against the threats and promises of torture and pain.

Harry's eyes snapped to Lord Voldemort.

The man was easily recognisable. S _tunning in his statuesque splendour_ , a thought sneaked in past the screen of reluctance. He stood tall and strong, wrapped in a veil of delicious Dark magic, pale, with thin lips and red eyes.

Eyes fixed on Harry.

The young man suppressed a shudder. Voldemort's lips curled into a taunting smirk and those eyes sharpened with a smug gleam. Obnoxious bastard. The familiar tremble in Harry's hands battered the fleeting fascination away.

_What am I doing? Oh no, Dark Lord, you can hypnotise anyone with this freaky gaze. But me? Never._

Harry raised his head.

He would never surrender to  _him_.

"How interesting, Lucius."

Harry watched with disbelief as Lord Voldemort chuckled. He was not supposed to chuckle! A Dark Lord must roar in anger, spittle, bristle, rave, and rage, but not do something as human as this.

"Is this a newest toy of yours? A pet project, perhaps? I don't believe I have ever seen him in our gatherings."

"Maybe because I have never attended them." Harry paused, his spirit high with delight at the widening of Voldemort's eyes. Had the man expected him to stand still like a naughty child and wait for his sentence? "My Lord," he added, lest the man thought him rude.

Which he usually was, but... Few had the gall to spit it into his face  _and_  come out of it uncursed.

" _It_  talks," Voldemort drawled, taking a few steps forwards. Yet, despite the amused exterior, there was a murderous bastard skulking under the surface.

_My second encounter with the man face to face, and he's about to tear me apart. Something tells me he_ will _retaliate if I push it too much. Hell, he'll_ _probably_ _retaliate anyway,_ _just_ _for the heck of it._

_It would have been so dull otherwise._

Harry ignored that last thought.

The ballroom stilled. In place of attempts to ignore Malfoy's piggy cries, or Harry's disruption, or even Lucius's hissed demands to let the Dark Lord strangle him, now the guests all stared, and evaluated, and gawped, and judged.

They would. Of course they would, with Voldemort there.

They would pick apart every word. Would survey every reaction and make notes.

Was he twisted for enjoying the attention?

"I am sorry, my Lord," Harry called out and slipped on a most guileless, somewhat slow smile he used on Bellatrix when her demands shattered the boundaries of possible and smashed the definitions of impossible into invisible dust. In other words, every time she asked things of him.

If his concentration hadn't been so intense, he would have missed the sharp inhale of breath and the smileful of teeth that flickered across the pale lips for a second.

Danger, danger, danger.

The teen forced himself to relax and present a tranquil and casual posture instead of shrinking into a tight ball of weeping nerve. The second variant actually sounded appealing.

"I thought you would be able to tell just by looking that I am neither an object nor a magical creature to be called 'it', but then again, your sight can be deteriorating. It must be the age. How old are you again? One hundred something, correct?"

" _Crucio_ ," the Dark Lord drawled leisurely, red eyes gleaming with unleashed fire. He didn't even take out his wand, Harry noticed. And then a shroud of pain enveloped him, and he couldn't think anymore.

_pain pain pain pain pain-_

_smouldering searing scorching burning-_

_in every part of his body, every limb and every inch of skin-_

_breaking splitting everlasting-_

It hurt. Wrecked him. Not even whippings, canings, stinging hexes, milder pain curses, or anything else measured up.

The Cruciatus Curse broke a lesser man. Harry was strong,  _had_ to be after years of steeling reprimand, physical and emotional and psychological...

And yet...

He screamed.

Through the haze the pain brought on, he made out jeering laughter and a couple of wolf-whistles, and someone spurring the spell on. Familiar voices.

_Bloody bastards. Oh yes, nothing improves appetite as much as a bout of random torture before dinner._

He chuckled through the pain, the sound grating and half-screeching. What a sight he presented! On the floor, black hair unbound and falling in a messy halo around his head, green eyes half-lidded, tears stubbornly held back in the corners...

And laughter, mixed with screaming, all hoarse and loud.

It had been his mother's tip, a parental advice that Harry took a bit too much to heart.

_"Laughter doesn't solve your problems but it makes shadows fade. And pain, too, will die away. Remember, Harry, your Mummy wants to see you smile, always, even if it seems hard to you, even when you feel like crying._ _Just_ _smile, and whatever trouble you will face, will look insignificant, like a bug._ _A stubborn bug, sure, but still a bug,"_  his mother had once told him, when he scraped his knees and couldn't stop the tears trickling down his chubby cheeks. She had planted a tender kiss on his forehead, one of those things about the childhood paradise he missed, and smiled, taking him out for ice-cream.

Her words, his guiding light, always.

"My, my, what a screamer. I am glad to see you are enjoying this, child," the velvety baritone anchored him to reality. Harry cursed it mentally.

"As redundant... as it sounds," he croaked through his own desperate chortles, not paying attention to the gasps at his continuing cheek, "when life... hands you out lemons, try... making lemonade. Never knew... that Crucio leaves such a... strong acidic taste in the mouth."

"It does. I am happy to provide you with learning opportunities," the Dark Lord stated, calm, deceptively  _normal_ if entertained. "And if you wish to, I can help you turn the Cruciatus Curse from a brief acquaintance into a friend. Of course, I need your permission first."

He sounded concerned, almost gentle.

The pain intensified.

_Twat. He knows he can do anything that comes into his head._

Harry set his jaw. He refused to show his weakness, refused to cry, refused to scream or beg.

_Happy thoughts. Laughter. Mother._

Through a cloud of tears – from laughter? From pain? He didn't know anymore, couldn't tell anymore – Harry picked out a tall frame, a person clad in pitch black, an engulfing spot of darkness.

He laughed harder.

Laughter through pain was hard. It required concentration, so the process took Harry's mind off the Crucio and didn't let insanity claw at him.

_Mum. I'm following your advice, see? Nothing can touch me. Nothing can faze me. He is like those shadows you talked about. He brings nothing but hurt and sorrow either._

"Father!" That was Malfoy Junior. The voice was shaky and hoarse, not at all his usual drawl. Harry rejoiced. "Has Potter finally gone insane? I told you this would happen. You owe me a broom now. My seventh one, I believe? Anyway, this time my heart longs for some vintage. Do they make-"

"Has the education at Hogwarts become so lacking that this is what concerns children? It seems I need to have a word with Dolohov." Notes of displeasure surged in the Dark Lord's voice.

Harry's agony fizzled out.

_It's over._

He was free now. Free from the burning, from the shackles of ache and suffering. Free from the suppression of the other's magic.

Harry bolted upwards.

The world around him shook and swam. His throat parched; swallowing posed a problem. Something clogged his throat.

He coughed. Bringing his hand to his mouth, Harry tried to stifle it, but something clumpy and slimy forced his lips apart. He peeled the hand away and inspected the trembling fingers. Blood dripped down his palm.

"A Cruciatus side effect," the Dark Lord explained, reminding the teen of his existence. "Happens to everyone."

Harry opened his mouth to retort, eyes ablaze, but it took him one look at Voldemort's gentle smile of a shark and sinfully red eyes to remember. Inside, he tore into himself for his carelessness tonight, especially in his interactions with the Dark Lord. Bloody firewhiskey.

_I can't let him take an interest in me. I've been so carefully keeping to my facade of a magically strong but not very bright guy for so long... I can't fuck it all up_ now _._

_Then again, mouthing off a bloody Dark Lord isn't exactly my definition of 'clever'._

His world tilted. Dark spots were hushing him to slumber. A headache sneaked in.

Unable to resist the lulling promises of darkness, Harry swung his body back and crashed into the floor again. The surface cooled his cheek. Harry nuzzled into it, not minding the bystanders, most of whom scurried off under the menacing gaze of the Dark Lord.

_Mmm... Marble._ _Sometimes, I love the stuck-up purebloods and their antics...But_ _honestly_ _, do their feet never feel cold in winter_ _? I mean, there are warming charms but it's not the same..._

"Potter!" came Lucius Malfoy's enraged hiss as Harry found himself roughly prodded with a boot.  _Beaten, more likely. His foot_ _certainly_ _doesn't take hostages. My ribcage is about to split._  "Don't you dare relax here while my son is suffering the consequences of your actions."

"If you haven't noticed, Mr Malfoy,  _I_  am suffering the consequences of my actions," Harry remarked dryly, but the older man ignored him, while Malfoy Junior sent him a smug smirk and raised a mocking brow.

Harry didn't retaliate because he deserved it. Tonight was uncalled for, and he attributed the loss of control to both the alcohol and the letter he had received the day before...

_Ah, it isn't a good idea to think about_ that _here. The Dark Lord is a genius at Legillimency, and I am pants at Occlumency._ _Obviously_ _, we don't mix._

"Have more decorum, Lucius," the Dark Lord reprimanded. Malfoy looked at him sharply, only to lower his head in submission at this lord's hard countenance. Words, however, he could not restrain.

"But- My son! You won't let it go, my Lord, will you?"

"The boy will receive his punishment-"

_This wasn't it?_  Harry thought with horrified disbelief. His muscles, his limbs, his skin, his bones, his  _hair_  all itched with lingering pain. The minor wound on his leg from the private training didn't help any.

"-but if he desires to make a further disgrace and laughing stock out of himself, why not let him? Unless, of course, he does want to preserve whatever dignity is left in him. In this case, he will do well to stand up and tell me his name." Warning tones entered the last sentence.

It wasn't an offer. Wasn't a suggestion. Not even an order.

Propped up on his elbows, Harry heard the clear threat the man's baritone and suppressed a surge of hatred.

"Of course I will, my Lord."

He scrambled to his feet and dusted his robes. Thankfully, the dust-repelling charms cast on the floors functioned well, so Harry's simple but stylish garments remained clean. No need to add dirt to sweat.

Lord Voldemort didn't help him get up, of course. Harry suspected he wouldn't, because Dark Lords were prats like this and would never assist until threatened, which was as likely as Hermione Granger suddenly proclaiming she was going to throw out her books and go play Quidditch.

"Your name, child?" At Harry's confused look, the Dark Lord waved his hand in impatience and irritation. "You amuse me."

_Thanks. Do I get the proud title of the court jester?_

But Harry knew that he had overstepped, had over _run_ , the boundaries for the night, and if he kept on, he wouldn't get away with a few minutes of Crucio anymore.

If a Dark Lord was out for your blood, your blood he got. Harry's parents a case in point.

"Harry Potter, my Lord," Harry said carefully, tonelessly. He conjured a hair tie to gather his messy coal-black hair into a ponytail. When he raised his eyes, the frown on the Dark Lord's face didn't startle him.

Harry waited. This sort of reaction was as familiar as the Lumos incantation or the sight of his own wand.

"Potter?" Something sparked in the red orbs but blankness swept it away in a second. "I have heard of the surname but I have never met  _you_."

Harry's eyes swung Voldemort's way, disbelieving, outraged, seething-

Nothing.

No recognition, no memories of their only encounter... The one encounter that could have changed Harry's attitude to the Dark Lord for the better but hadn't, because the man had blundered the opportunity up, was too stubborn to-

Harry barely reined in his rage.

"Of course, my Lord," Draco Malfoy butted in, his face a beam of pure conceitedness and pride. "His breeding is too low for you to bother. Personally, I think-"

"Lucius," the Dark Lord ordered sharply. The said man twitched in response. Harry surveyed, enraptured. "Your spawn is overly talkative today. Careful. If he continues being this cheery, I may reconsider giving Potter a punishment."

The younger Malfoy paled and ducked his head.

Harry gave the ballroom a cursory glance to find out that Malfoy's date had shrunk into the crowd, probably damning whatever preconceptions she might have had of a romantic evening with the pureblood heir, while the other guests were seeping into the other, darker ballroom, filled with wizarding VIPs and usually forbidden to everyone but the notorious Inner Circle.

"Forgive me for asking, my Lord," Harry tried, straightening his back – the bloody thing cracked when he did – and meeting the man's gaze head on, "but what is it going to be?"

"Elaborate," the man demanded imperiously.

"My punishment," Harry did. "You did douse me with Crucio already-"

"Are you truly so frail that this seems enough?" The Dark Lord raised a mocking eyebrow and stalked closer to Harry. The younger male refused to step back. "You are going to be a Death Eater, child, not a trophy husband. Some of my followers have to endure weeks of torture by the Light side. Months of unbearable pain. Slow, painful death. They have to endure it all for the cause, for the future, for their children, for  _me_. When you start going out on missions, something as minor as  _this_  will be the least of your problems."

By the time the last word of reproach slipped off his tongue, the man towered over Harry, radiating allure and seemingly not noticing the way everyone's eyes returned to them, seeking recognition from their Lord, desperate for the tiniest grain of attention.

This close, he was even more breathtaking. Harry willed his gaze not to linger, not to give out the tremors that originated both from hate and... other feelings.

_Malfoy must be dying of envy out there._  The tall and broad figure shielded him from viewing the blond.  _He has never stood this close to his obsession._

Harry grunted and cringed away when spidery fingers landed on his shoulder. A whiff of cologne assaulted him. The man leaned in, mouth so close to his earlobe that his breath tingled Harry's ear.

Harry wanted to push him away. He convinced himself it was out of pure, undulated disgust without a taint of positive emotion.

The Dark Lord whispered.

"But it seems unlikely to me that you will break." Voice lowered as the hand tightened around the shoulder. "I have never seen you-"

And there it went again. That pang.

_You utter bastard. Have the decency of remembering, at least._

"-but it doesn't mean I have never  _heard_  of you." Voldemort leaned back and straightened to his entire height, his eyes gleaming. Shades of crimson swirled, and Harry couldn't look away. "Harry Potter. Top duellist. Mastered the Slashing Curse at eleven, the Patronus Charm at thirteen, the Explosive Chain at fifteen... Remarkable. Outstanding. You will go far if you continue like this." He flashed Harry a dark smirk. "Believe me,  _my_ childhood was similar."

_Sharing this with me?_ Harry's self-preservation instinct wailed and kicked.  _No good. No good at all. What the hell does he need me for? Or-_

Harry's eyes didn't bulge out at the sinking suspicion only because he mastered emotion concealment.

_Has he always_ _been interested_ _in me? Or is it a recent development? No, I doubt that even a Dark Lord would be as creepy as to keep tags on a 'useless traitors' kid', so it must be the latter..._

The man observed him with amusement, head tilted back, waiting for Harry to show a reaction, to start speaking. One corner of his lip hiked up higher than the other.

Harry opened his cramped fists.

_Why would he do that? If this interest has something to do with any latest events... Does he know about the letter, then? Was it traced? Is he waiting for the Marking Ceremony to start so he can execute me_ _publicly_ _? Damn, I knew I should have burnt it sooner!_

"Does it always take you so much to process things?" Voldemort queried lightly, although dots of impatience were now swirling around the irises. "Or are you too busy admiring me?"

Harry let it go. There was nothing he could do anyway.

"My Lord?" Harry asked. He faked he didn't hear his last words, treading on the knife's edge, aware that the knife would turn on him the moment the Dark Lord lost his weird amusement and disposed of Harry for something as mundane as breathing too loudly. Or not being a pureblood. Or being a traitors' son. Whatever worked, Harry supposed. "Is there... a reason for this sudden revelation? I mean, surely I'm not that important for you to track my achievements?"

"Why not?" A dark eyebrow shot up towards the hairline. "A student should be proud of having his achievements noted. Although..." Here, the man lifted a thin finger to stick it under the strong chin before drawling in a taunt, "You seem to be an exception in all regards."

"It's just-" Harry made a show of grasping for words. He could turn it all into a game; all he needed was to play the part of a boy overwhelmed with all the attention, first from the Malfoy heir, then from the guests, and now, as the cherry on a cake, the Dark Lord's. "It seems so surreal, my Lord. I have never met you before. I have never  _imagined_ meeting you. And now, when you stand in front of me, and talk to me, and show your interest in me-"

"Interest?" Voldemort's face distorted into a cruel jeer. "A necessity. Surely, you know who your parents were."

Harry bit his tongue.

_I know. I know, and I won't let you forget either._

_And you had the chance to fix your fuck-up, my dear Dark Lord, but you screwed up even then._ _Well, it's not my fault you are a prideful creep with no life and no hobbies, guided only by your homicidal tendencies_ _._

"Traitors," Harry whispered needlessly.

"To more than merely blood," the Dark Lord agreed with an unpleasant curl of lips. "You realise that we cannot let children like you, impressionable, with bad genetics, strut around without any monitoring."

"Of course, my Lord." Harry bowed his head, showing disarming submissiveness. "Aunt Bellatrix-" And oh how he loathed the name they forced on him! Yet, he picked his battles. "Aunt Bellatrix stressed how difficult it will be for me to take my place as a respectable member of society and not part of the Resistance Movement."

Oh yes, she pounded it into him time and time again, an unforgettable mantra.

The Dark Lord shot Harry a mocking smile before his hand crashed into Harry's shoulder again. This time, it was not a clutch but a pat.

Humiliating. Disgraceful.

"Exactly. I wouldn't want to put to death such an asset as you, Harry Potter. Good servants are hard to come by." The voice pitched lower, so low Harry had to strain his ears to allow its velvety quality to caress his ears. The Dark Lord's lips almost did, too. They were a little dry. His breath carried firewhiskey and something sweet. "Your talents will be useful for the Dark Side. For our side. Don't make the mistake your parents did. You  _will_ live to serve me."

Lord Voldemort pulled back and smiled. Harry read treats and threats and could only imagine how many undertones he missed.

How could he go against  _this_ man?

Only the weight of his vow steadied him on his legs.

Harry tried to swallow. He sketched a bow, graceful as a feline, murmuring, "I cannot imagine a purpose higher, my Lord."

"Indeed?" the man mocked, tilting his head to a side before pivoting on his heels and turning to the Malfoys who had been watching the exchange boggle-eyed. The elder had that constipated expression of strangled curiosity, while his son hadn't quite had the experience to master it yet.

"The Marking Ceremony is starting in an hour," the Dark Lord declared, flicking invisible lint off his pitch black dress robe. "After your performance today, Mr Potter, your tale will be passed on to the next generation."

"Uncouth mudblood," Malfoy spat out. Harry ignored him. Disregard of the stupid had been another lesson of Harry's mother.

"Your punishment," Voldemort announced, drawing Harry's attention to his gleaming teeth.

"What about it?"

"Your guardian is Bellatrix Lestrange," the man stated, and Harry clearly made out the undercurrents of sick glee and viciousness.

It hit him.

_No! He can't mean-_

"As your guardian, she has full rights to mete out the punishment she sees adequate." The Dark Lord, taking off and irritably motioning for them to follow, threw a backwards glance at Harry. He couldn't be more puffed up with pride and smugness.

"My Lord, you mentioned that you need my talents-" Harry started, his own pace controlled and graceful even as his heart fluttered in his chest and pulse drummed in his ears.

"Need? Don't think too highly of yourself, insolent child." The monster paused. "That said, yes, your aid will be beneficial for our cause."

_Beneficial, my arse! I'll make myself_ irreplaceable _!_

"I won't be of much use to you if I am dead," Harry pointed out bluntly. Once again, he ignored Malfoy's quiet 'if only'. "So, it's a bad idea to entrust my punishment and behaviour control to that woman."

The Dark Lord's lips curled into a smirk.

"Dysfunctional family? Be careful, sweet child. You mustn't air your dirty laundry. Some people might be desperate enough to snatch and use it."

"Then they are not people but unprincipled beasts," Harry retorted, stuffing his hands into his pockets, thanking Merlin he had begged Madame Malkin to stitch them on. "Family matters are sacred."

He ignored the fact that he would totally use such information to attain power over someone else.

The door to the other ballroom loomed into view, a short distance away.

"Go find your caregiver, Harry Potter," the Dark Lord murmured, even more poised and straight-backed than before. A dark mantle of alluring power, the very essence of magic, descended and blanketed him, just as envy burned its sneaky way into Harry's mind: he was no less powerful, and yet his skills didn't even approach such instantaneous control over his own magic. "If you are having trouble with a  _fragile woman_ , I will make sure you survive your punishment myself."

With those words, the Dark Lord prowled off to enthrone himself in the centre of the room.

He didn't even turn around. Why did it sting?

_Bellatrix? Fragile woman, my arse!_ _Had His Highness deigned talking to the common folk, they would have_ _quickly_ _disillusioned him_ _._ _Then again, the Dark's Lord's definition of 'fragile' might_ _just_ _include snapping necks, breaking arms, and hurling poisoned daggers into people's eyes_ _._

From behind, someone grabbed his shoulder and whirled him around. Harry came face to face with Lucius Malfoy.

"This is not the end of it, mudblood," the man hissed.

Harry raised a mocking eyebrow and tilted his head to the side.

"Of course not. We are yet to be marked, Mr Malfoy. This is the point of the entire evening and did you really think I would go home after a pleasant chat with your son and the Dark Lord?"

Malfoy gritted his teeth but didn't stoop to the common display of human emotion and glower. Then, his eyes narrowed to slits as he spat out, "Do you wish to resurrect your childhood, Potter?"

Harry laughed.

It was a hollow laughter, bereft of joy, of humour, of optimism... even bereft of those morsels of purpose, which had chipped in to keep his sanity intact under the blast of Crucio earlier.

Harry thought it suited him. It mirrored the emotions found when his facade crumbled and left mere ruins of his personality, with only the cobblestones of goal resisting the collapse. Empty, empty, empty... What would it take to build up the castles of his childhood again, full of hopes and dreams and happiness, in place of the dilapidated shack he was now?

"You misaimed, Lucius," Harry took care to enunciate the name. The vein was protruding on the aforementioned man's forehead again. Typical of their confrontations. "I am not this seven-year-old anymore. Remember: I can hex you now. I'll pounce on the opportunity, actually. Oh, and pull this stick out of your arse; it has been stuck in there just for... your whole life, maybe?"

Harry flapped his eyelashes a few times in a model imitation of Parvati Patil. Malfoy's face shut down.

"You wield your insolence like a shield," he finally intoned, grey eyes blowing cold as they stabbed. "You imagine it to be an absolute protection against all foes and throes. And this will be your downfall. For now, I shall allow you this whim and indulge you, but another transgression, Potter-" His voice turned fierce and Harry dared not breathe. "-and I will rip apart this farce of a shield, will bring you down with words and leave you weeping on the floor."

Harry allowed a tiny smile to play around the corners of his lips.

"Strong words to say, Lord Malfoy," he acknowledged. "Alas, as much as talking to you delights me, I have a deranged 'aunt' to find."

Harry breezed past the stoic pureblood.

He got to the farthest wall of the ballroom before he allowed himself to exhale and relinquish the tight leash he had on himself... Well, when he wasn't drinking, anyway. He skewered alcohol trays with a glower.

_Not again_ , he told himself firmly.

Instead, Harry surveyed the ballroom.

He had never been there. Not even Malfoy or Nott were allowed. Most of the Dark Lord's guests mingled in the other, "common", ballroom, while only the most upscale guests and Inner Circle members had access to this part of the castle.

Every year, only one night allowed – well, more like demanded – all ordinary seventh years there. They would get the Mark – and go off to Hogwarts in a day, already legal Death Eaters.

He abhorred it.

Harry knew he was scowling, yet it didn't matter: he stuck out like a sore thumb in this mass of spick-and-span people, all owning shops and manors and shares, all forcing out laughs and giggles despite the hidden desire to smash their companions' heads.

How pathetic.

His gaze stumbled upon Lucius Malfoy conversing with his wife now, her hand held gently in his as they made way to the centre of the ballroom, not far away from the Dark Lord's throne, surrounded by a swarm of buttlickers in silks and velvets.

_Upscale racist couple reunited_ , Harry thought with a detached amusement as the man stooped over to whisper into Narcissa's ear, to which she replied with a silent gasp that she stifled with a manicured hand. Cold crept into her eyes.  _Talking about me, I presume. It might be a good idea to reinforce the wards around my room today._ _Just_ _in case._

Harry's gaze drifted further.

And halted.

In the middle of a group of wildly crowing wizards there stood she. A grin split her face in two, her black curls bobbed around her gaunt face, and a pale hand was holding the stem of a wineglass.

Bellatrix Lestrange.

In his childhood, that hazy year following his parents' assassination, the derision expressed by the society had nearly broken him. His recollections of that time included only the few shards of pride that remained after the sledgehammer of sharp words had smashed into it. After the equally cruel indifference to his suffering. He would run to his room, ridiculously lavish but as cold as a Dementor's Kiss, lock himself up, and cry himself to sleep. He would sleep the day away until Bella came up to his bedroom and wrecked the locking charm, disregarding the bits of peace and quiet for Harry that shattered along with it.

The woman would laugh at his misfortune, then. Calling him a mudblood, she would taunt and mock and chortle, only to cruelly punish him when he snapped and fought back.

Now, Harry knew all the petty tricks in her arsenal; knew ways to neutralise them and ways to turn them into his own weapon, one to smash right in her smirking face.

When he had been seven, though, he hadn't. Her attitude had traumatised him more than he would ever admit.

_It's time to remind myself of her. I can't avoid her forever. Unfortunately_ , Harry chided himself mildly and tucked a lock of black hair behind his ear.

Every great journey started with a single step, right?

And here he took it. See? Not hard. Not hard at all.

Trying to envision it as a leisure stroll rather than a walk to the chopping block, Harry ambled to the other side of the dark ballroom, manoeuvring whenever he touched upon the dancing zones.

He almost froze in his tracks when her eyes darted from Avery to Harry.

A startled o-shape of lips twisted and morphed into a wide grin.

No way out now. Harry's pride would not allow him to back out, would be screaming and bucking and jerking against it, even when his childhood memories would pull him away and lull him into the safety of the shadowed corner.

Just a step away. A mere step. And now-

"My faithful followers!" the voice rang through the ballroom, stilling the music, stilling the dancers and the idle chatterboxes.

He stopped. A shiver of anticipation ran down Harry's spine.

After all, despite how much Harry hated the man and would love to see him on the other side of his wand, the teen had come to terms with his eventual Death Eater-ish fate and couldn't rebuff the opportunity to see how Marking worked.

One day, he might even topple it.

The Dark Lord rose, generously allowing his groupies to pile at his feet as some of them bent over to kiss the hem of his robes while others had starts in their eyes and drool trickling down their chins as they silently worshipped him.

Harry grimaced.

_Show-off_ and _a ponce. Dear Dark Lord, is there an end to your drawbacks?_

Yet, even he could not deny the aristocratic majesty with which Voldemort carried himself, nor the enthralling aura. No wonder he captivated the public with his charm.

"The obligatory Marking Ceremony has been held for fifteen years," the Dark Lord continued as he crept in the darkness, black cloak billowing around him in a Snape-like fashion. Everyone knelt. Longing hands reached for the fabric of his robes to touch this magnificence embodied in a seemingly middle-aged man. The hemline mischievously danced away from grasping fingers.

The Lord motioned for them to get to their feet.

"This year is no different. Tonight, the following students will receive the pleasure and the responsibility to become my loyal Death Eaters: first, Hannah Abbot!"

The girl, dressed in cheap material and with straw-coloured hair askew around her plump cheeks, stumbled through the crowd to the Dark Lord. She halted in front of him and dropped to her knees.

"My Lord," she murmured reverently, pupils in her brown eyes dilated, as if she couldn't believe this wasn't a dream.

"Your hand," the Dark Lord demanded and, when she failed to provide it fast enough, roughly wrested it to him. " _Morsmordre!_ "

For a moment, all was silent.

She screeched.

_Today is obviously_ _a bad day for my eardrums,_  Harry decided, discreetly casting a sound-lowering charm.  _First Malfoy, then myself, now this ceremony, then... it will be me screaming there._

The unmerciful echo carried her bawl through the ballroom, magnifying the sound. The spectators didn't help her, only watched on and retained a solemn silence even as her hand shot upwards, even as screams died down in her throat. Even as slowly, gradually, the spot where Voldemort pressed his wand mushroomed and took shape.

Morphing, shaping itself, the blemish rearranged into a picture: a black skull with a snake slithering out of its mouth. A symbol that would soon adorn Harry's own arm. The arms of all present here.

Abbot glimpsed the mark and squeezed out a tiny grin before passing out. Soundly. With a resonating  _thud_.

"Weakling," someone sneered.

"The kids are too young to withstand the pain," Lord Greengrass chided behind Harry. "Their cores are a step away from fully developing, so it hurts way more than it would an adult wizard."

Still keeping his head down, Harry blinked.

_Then why? Why did Voldemort choose this particular age for them to get marked? Al of us are seventeen already, some even days away from eighteen... Strange. And I doubt he is doing it_ _simply_ _to_ _satisfy_ _his sadism._

And on it went.

Each one of his classmates ended up on the floor with a lost consciousness. Even Hermione Granger, a resilient mudblood whom Harry actually tolerated bumped onto the marble after receiving her mark.

"Harry Potter!"

Harry clamped his fingers into the tender flesh of his palm.

In an imitation of the Dark Lord's saunter, he arrived to the centre of the ballroom and knelt, like the others before him.

His hand was viciously yanked before he could offer it.

" _Morsmordre!"_

The words were a deadly sentence and for a second, when the burning sensation flooded him, Harry wished it were lethal so he could escape the misery-

_"Smile, Harry! Your mother wants you to live and be happy, my beloved son._ _Surely_ _, you will grant me this wish? Live as unburdened and free life as you can, and you will make your mother happy."_

Harry raised his head and met the Dark Lord's gaze. Ruby clashed with emerald, red with green.

A smile bloomed on his face.

The Dark Lord's eyes widened and his poker face fell down like a house of cards, soundlessly but surely, and Harry savoured the triumph. The wings of victory carried him over the rest of the pain. It ended before he could comprehend the extent to which he was hurting.

His mind cleared and he hadn't fainted.

The only one here.

Whispers broke out behind him and Harry only stretched his lips in a cold smile when the angry, resentful, envious mumbles of 'mudblood' and 'traitors' son' prevailed.

Nothing new here.

"And I must repeat," the Dark Lord broke the background buzz, " _remarkable_ , Mr Potter. If you complete your assignments as a Death Eater and be less of a nuisance to the wizarding community, we can forgive the taint in your heritage and award you a silver mask." His smirk gained a hint of mockery to it. "Only if you behave."

On the outside, Harry's demeanour didn't switch back from the demure one he had adopted during the second part of the evening, after all the damage he could do had been done.

On the inside, a surge of inspiration pierced him.

_Oh, I will._ _Outwardly_ _. I will become your best Death Eater, your right-hand man, the very pillar of your power. You will rely on me and trust me implicitly... And I will be the one to drag you down._

_Actions always have reactions to them, my Lord._ _Just_ _because you wield power, you are not exempt from them._

* * *

Although receiving the mark hadn't been as painful for him as for the others, not least because of a Crucio received on the same day, the spot still stung. And Harry still felt unclean because of the brand. Tainted.

He had to shower. Now.

A house elf handed out portkeys to the guests, and Harry held out his arm to take one. Just as his lips formed to utter the password, a baritone halted him.

"I admit I am reluctantly impressed, Mr Potter."

Harry spun. He hadn't mistaken the voice; his newly appointed "master" was observing him, leaning lazily against the wall.

Harry flicked a casual glance to the side. No one in the room bar the elf.

"You have said it already," slipped out before Harry could catch himself.

Voldemort stuck off the wall and advanced to Harry, making the young man jerk back.

"And will be repeating it endlessly if you continue to amaze me." He invaded Harry's personal bubble like it was nothing, his presence like a pointy needle. Harry's eyebrow twitched and the teen forced himself to count in mermish. Sometimes, it helped. Sometimes, it didn't.

"I believe we will see each other again," the Dark Lord exhaled into his neck.

_I hope not. But you are going to_ _brutally_ _murder my optimism, right?_

Harry rushed the portkey to whisk him away.


	3. Would You Dare to Unravel Me?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your reviews and support!

Crafting his mask had not been easy, Harry reflected.

He was lounging by his lonesome in one of the farthest compartments of the bright red train that would take him to Hogwarts. Greenery was flashing by through the window. The familiar sceneries called forth a wave of reminiscence, tranquil and mildly puzzling.

After all, one hint of Harry's true face, one glimpse of the hazard creeping around in the depths of the emerald orbs – and a Cruciatus Curse would be the least of Harry's problems. Especially if they found out the extent to which he detested Lord Voldemort.

So, since his childhood, Harry understood the concept of  _hiding_.

Strangely, the process of establishing his mask had been a lot like... potions.

One speck of insolence here (not to look like a complete toe-rag), a handful of bravery there (his parents  _had_ been Gryffindors, after all), a vial of guile and foolishness to balance it all and cancel the inner cold-blooded killer – and all of it drowned in the base of general, if reluctant, obedience to the Lord. Oh, and a touch of power to crack through – so that no one dared dispose of him or deem him undeserving because of his parentage.

Perfect.

Avoid displaying too much grace or poise, but let 'em hear a whisper of hidden power and potential strength.

Harry hadn't been arduously slaving away to build up his duelling skills just for the heck of it or out of a masochistic need.

Avoid openly sympathising with mudbloods and muggles but do assist them sometimes, when no one can see or hear, when there are no risks for Harry to be labelled a 'blood traitor' or a 'muggle-lover', yet the other party falls swiftly into his debt.

And it had served his purpose.

_They_ had noted him. The Order of the Phoenix had noted him.

Harry rummaged through his school bag, and his nimble fingers fumbled for a hidden pocket underneath a stack of books he had taken out of the trunk to peruse during the train ride. He had warded the pocket with the help of Knockturn's best Master warder, and although not cheap at all, the results pleased him: the wards were thin and untraceable and could hide any small object.

Harry unzipped it and pulled out an envelope with worn edges and a single red scribble glaring up at him from the centre of it: "To Harry".

He hadn't burnt it yet.

Harry dragged out the letter, staring at it for a second.

It was ordinary. The parchment felt and looked cheap. It didn't carry any charms, either active or passive, or enchantments. No wards shielded it. No curses bounced on him. Harry could set it on fire, rip it apart, throw it away into the dustbin, use as a dinner for the Slytherin common room fireplace, throw it into the water until the ink smudged and not even restoring spells deciphered the green letters anymore...

Yet, he had preserved it.

The envelope lay smugly in his lap even as Harry fiddled with the tatty edges of the parchment, green eyes staring off into space, at the flashes of nature beyond the window.

He pulled out the letter but didn't set out to read; by now, he had memorised it by heart. Could retell the contents in his sleep, the exact same wording burnt into the stony surface of his mind and memory.

_Dear Mr Potter,_

_You must be wondering why a stranger would send you a letter._ _Maybe_ _you have disposed of it already._ _Maybe_ _you are still keeping it. We don't have a sure way to know, I'm afraid._

_Human relationships... They can be beautiful bonds of deep friendship, of loyalty and affection. They can be ugly ropes of mutual hatred, like those of the deadliest foes. They can be the suppressive leash of compulsive obsession, sickening and jarring. They can be the gentle guiding thread of guardianship and mentorship._

_And the most beautiful, the most binding of all are the bonds of familial love._

_You must know a lot about familial love and loyalty, right, Harry?_

_After all, a person truly_ _cherishes only the thing he has lost, when it is already painfully_ _out of his reach, and his spirit wails in longing._ _You have had a lot of time to comprehend and consider it, I'm sure, considering the cruel way in which Lord Voldemort tore your parents away from you_ _._

_You were so young at the time, so impressionable. So pure and untainted._

_I am sure you grieve your parents, Harry, as much as I am sure you want to avenge them, thus cleansing the bloodlust and the desire for vengeance dwelling in your heart at the moment._

_We can assist you._

_Your parents have laid their lives on the altar of duty to the Wizarding World. Their sacrifice is a symbol of Light courage and love and good. They fought and shed blood, both theirs and their enemies'._ _They hid their true views and committed crimes all in the name of the Greater Good, understanding the necessity as I hope you will, too_ _._

_As their son, it is only obvious you admire their bravery and wish to follow in their footsteps, Harry._

_Despite Lord Voldemort's attempts to besmirch the history and magic of Hogwarts, it is still a dwelling of Light, soaked with blood of the three Light Founders, their hopes, their beliefs, their love. It is not a fortress of the Dark. And the fact that the Light cannot truly take hold of it forcefully at the moment, does not mean that we cannot try... subtler methods to regulate the violence of Lord Voldemort's education._

_Alas, you understand, my boy, that despite out deep-held belief in the good of your heart, the risks of disclosing the way to contact us run too high._

_But fear not._

_Your father was a Marauder, a mischief-maker with a knack for finding things he shouldn't._ _I'm sure you have inherited this little peculiarity and are now burning with curiosity and eagerness to discover_ _._

_We_ _shall_ _be awaiting you, Harry Potter._

_-Someone who wishes you good._

_Tha gall of the man!- Assuming things like this!_  Harry's fingers gathered into trembling fists as fury rolled off of him in waves.  _And he dares fling my parents' names and deaths around like it is nothing!_

"Maybe I must incinerate it after all," Harry muttered darkly, his hand clenching the letter.

About to take his wand out of the holster, he blanched at the distant drum of footsteps approaching the compartment.

Eyes wide and wild, Harry carelessly tucked the envelope into the hidden pocket of his school bag once more and mounted a couple of Ancient Runes and Dark Arts books on it as an extra precaution.

Oh, Harry had a hunch who was about to intrude in his bubble. He would get  _extra_  vicious during the Duelling Classes.

The doors swung open.

Harry sharply looked up and narrowed his eyes in irritation before cocking an annoyed eyebrow.

"Zacharias Smith, there is such a socially acceptable practice called 'knocking'," Harry hissed despite making room for the newly arrived. Reluctantly, he shoved a few books on the opposite seat to the side with his boot. "I promise, no one would complain if you used it."

Zacharias, a teen a year younger than Harry, shrugged and plopped down on the cleared up space. The sunshine beaming through the window lightened his dirty blonde hair and illuminated dispassionate blue eyes, which locked with Harry's for a moment.

"Harry Potter, there is this wonderful Ministry- and the Dark Lord-approved spell called the 'Locking Charm'," he drawled as a bored reply, snatching a small handbook on most popular duelling hexes and jinxes, which was lying on the top of a small mountain of Harry's books. "Should I introduce you?"

Harry's eyes narrowed further, to the point where they were two cracks with green shining through.

"Magical Theory, first year," Harry deadpanned and elaborated at Smith's confused look. "No matter the level of a spell you use, a better wizard will know the counter-spell. And use it, of course."

A sly grin played on Zacharias's pale lips. "Admit me to be your better, Potter? Why, I never thought I'd see the day."

"Just quoting Crouch's words," Harry replied, his eyes flickering down to the Potions homework he had pulled out. Snape always got on his case, and Harry always delighted in nicking the chance to humiliate him from the man every time with his flawless performance and impeccable answers. "To what do I owe the pleasure, Smith? Don't tell me you have come here craving my companionship."

Zacharias sniffed and sneered, and replied after a short pause, "Don't insult me, Potter. I have too much intelligence to lie to you so openly."

"And?" Harry prompted with a raised eyebrow and a tap on his cheek. "People retreat to the farthest compartments to enjoy their solitude, Smith. Not listen to blabbering fools or puzzling out useless riddles. Speak."

"I worried about you," Zacharias confessed, slotting the duelling spells handbook back into the pile. He eschewed Harry's eyes. "You have this unhealthy obsession with the Dark Lord... I'm not of age yet, so I couldn't control you and rein you in." He threw Harry a pointed look. "And you needed it. Badly."

Harry restrained his emotions as paranoia battled with the wish to finally open up and trust another human being. Relying on himself only took its toll.

_He is observant and a liability. I swear, if he hints at ever betraying this secret... Well, I don't object to killing nosy halfbloods._  He ignored the pang in his chest at the idea.

_Not that it will be necessary. He_ _is convinced_ _my reasons for researching Voldemort are different. More... personal._

Meanwhile, Zacharias continued, "I've heard about this stunt you pulled on Malfoy. Not that I fault you, of course, the guy grates on everyone's nerves around here, and Granger will probably osculate you, but that's still stupid. Keep this up, Potter, and Weasley will be taking lessons on idiocy and rashness from you."

Harry threw him a sharp look, imbued with as much despise and derision as he could manage. Judging by Zacharias's wince, he had succeeded.

"Thank you from the reminder. Believe me, Voldemort's Crucio did a wonderful job of driving out all the moronic ideas coursing through my mind and setting my brains straight." Harry rubbed his temples subconsciously. It hadn't been the most painful experience in his life, but-

"It must have hurt-" Zacharias started.

"You think?" Harry bit out before burying his nose in the Potions homework.  _Now, what does it say about using the parts of people who annoy you?_

"Potter, I'm not a dunce. I'm not talking about the Cruciatus." Zacharias flicked the lint off his top-notch school robes. "You couldn't be too happy with your crush and obsession cursing the daylight out of you."

Harry hid a grimace behind a nervous half-grin.

_That_ was what Zacharias believed.

They had met each other for the first time in the library, while Harry was browsing through texts to scrap up information on the Dark Lord. He had been so obsessed with all the searching that he hadn't noticed Zacharias standing by his shoulder with a sneer, and when the boy opened his mouth, the only excuse Harry could conceive of was that of a crush on their supreme ruler. It had been accepted, albeit not without a jibe or two, and now Harry had no choice but to keep up his facade in front of his only fr- close acquaintance.

Harry did not allow people to glimpse the person he truly was. Less dangerous this way.

Thus, he rearranged the mask that partly slid down in Zacharias's presence and reinforced his acting.

"I don't want to talk about it, Smith," Harry snapped, making a show of hurt at the recollection, eyes averted in faux sorrow. "Your efforts at staying sympathetic are half-arsed at best."

"Who says anything about sympathetic?" Zacharias grunted as his expression darkened at Harry's lack of appreciation. He drew up and whipped his head to the door. "Are the privacy wards up?"

Harry smirked and crossed one leg over the other, absent-mindedly accommodating the Potions textbook in his lap.

"Who do you take me for?" he drawled and a glint of his verdant eyes betrayed the pride and anticipation swirling in him.

Privacy wards. One thing Harry had learnt before hitting ten-year-old mark, all thanks to his 'Aunt' Bella. The woman had spied on him herself and had ordered her husband and brother-in-law to rake through his things more than once, and after she had carelessly thrown away the only relic of Harry's father's...

_Well, let me tell you: learning a couple of fine privacy wards trumps scrounging the blood of the woman's bloody cronies off the wall._

Harry allowed a tiny smirk play on his mouth even as his half-hooded eyes drank in the sudden unease and shiftiness in Zacharias's posture.

"Usually, you can feel the privacy wards washing over you," Zacharias remarked with a casual air around him but eyes so sharp they dispelled the illusion as soon as it jumped at Harry.

The green-eyed teen tucked a strand of hair behind his ear to get a clearer view of the Hifflepuff and shrugged. His cheeks dimpled as he shot the blond a smug grin.

"Maybe I'm just that good," Harry quipped and chuckled at the grimace on Zacharias's face before clearing up the expression. "You are an exception." After a pause, Harry's face was a mask of frozen water. He redeemed, "Sometimes, you can be one, at least. That's why I've keyed you in. Nevertheless, don't stick your nose up yet: this trust can just as easily snap and vanish."

_And no, we_ _are done_ _with mushy talk for today. On to the business. Quick._

Seeing that Zacharias was opening his mouth, probably about to pour a shitload of sentimental drivel in response to Harry's uncharacteristic display of faith, when a held-out hand halted him.

"The wards are up. You've done your duties and been a good friend-" Harry mentally snorted; as if he needed such a thing for real. "-so now we can talk." A second later, he decided to add, "I have a hunch about what this might be."

Zacharias looked up at him sharply. When his blue eyes met a steely wall of Harry's gaze, he inclined his head and allowed his lips quirk.

"For someone who is rumoured to be all brawn and no brain, sometimes you can be almost smart, Potter," he intoned with a shake of his head. "Then again, I guess that by now even Crabbe has caught on that something is seriously wrong with the Light side."

Harry scoffed and leaned into the cushioned seat. It made him sad that even the compartment seats in a train of all places were comfier that Lestrange Manor's finest velvet-lined sofas. Then again, he reflected, Rodolphus always insisted on endurance-training and that one couldn't lounge in cushioned armchairs when he could train or set off on a road to enlightenment in the library.

"I highly doubt that bit about Crabbe," Harry muttered before his eyes sharpened with consideration. "This is brought on by today's Prophet, right?"

Zacharias met his gaze with a solemn inclination of his head, for once without a sneer or grimace on his face.

"It's caused quite a stir," he confirmed, and Harry could fully believe him. Outrage mixed with shock and speckled with anticipation had been brewing within him since the early morning, when Hedwig had delivered the newspaper to him.

Harry carded through his mess of black hair he had let loose instead of tying into a ponytail.

Quite frankly, the news had thrown him off balance and even pushed him to reconsider his dubious schemes of playing both sides of this game, something of a double spy, yet with his own agenda – vengeance. He had planned on the Order of the Phoenix to be their default sentimental, compassionate selves and believe his spouted tosh of wishing to leave the Dark side for good and to succumb to whatever leader the Light side had.

Of course, Harry would rather Avada himself than assume their naive beliefs of equality and empathy. Nothing prevented him from slipping through the cracks after the Dark Lord was over with, and if Harry would be unsatisfied with the Light side's Leader... He wasn't called a duelling prodigy for nothing. And assassination was as good a hobby as many.

"I can imagine," he lowered his voice to a not-quite-whisper. "To try taking hold of St Mungo's... How many of ours have been killed?"

Harry didn't honestly care for the answer. The Dark Side had nothing to offer him, and he had had to tolerate its cruelty and its bigoted slurs since day one out of his parents' care, but he had a role to play: that of an unassuming, somewhat cheeky and ignorant, but powerful and overall devoted (with a crush on the Dark Lord fuelling the misconception) little wizard.

Zacharias furrowed his eyebrows in consideration, his eyes drifting to the side while he mentally counted and analysed.

"About a dozen dead, half a hundred injured..." He let Harry chew on that before adding, "Rabastan was amongst the injured, you know. Isn't he the brother of your adoptive father?" Zacharias's voice was an uncaring drawl.

Harry waved him off with impatience, his mind already set on the first piece of information.

"Their attacks are getting more relentless," he noted needlessly, at which Zacharias sent a sneer and a 'no, duh' look. "Crueller, too. More ruthless. They aren't using the Killing Curse or Cruciatus on the battlefield yet, nor any other torture or painful curses, but they've moved on from  _Diffindo_  and  _Bombarda_."

Without his will guiding them, Harry's fingers traced the golden letters of the potions tome in his lap, this one the only present he had ever been given – by Bellatrix Lestrange, no less, in his first year at the manor.

"They are also more organised," Zacharias threw in and grimaced. "I've dived into the books – yes, Potter, you don't have to give me this look, I know how to read, which I seriously doubt you do – to conduct some research-"

"Yes," Harry interrupted, snapping his fingers in impatience and shooting the other teen a smouldering look. "They were fumbling fools in the beginning, without proper organisation of their ranks, with everyone swarming to the Dark wizards and flinging Light spells around in hopes that those would actually work- but that was then. One figures that in so many years common sense has finally hit them and their movements are smoother and smarter." Harry gave a pointed look. "Yesterday's attack only proves it, no?"

According to the Prophet – not the most trusted source out there, but decent enough in this kind of matters – the Light wizards had attempted to overtake the largest wizarding hospital in the UK. St Mungo's had held out until the arrival of reinforcements, but the few guards assigned to it had been unassuming and taken down quickly by the well-structured troops led by Kingsley Shacklebolt – the Undesirable number three or four, one of the few Order of the Phoenix wizards they had any knowledge about and who was more than a blank slate to them.

Two things disconcerted Harry about the attack.

One, it had been  _too_  organised. Their forces had known where exactly to strike and where to sink under the radar and pass by unnoticed – and would have easily accomplished the latter, if one of St Mungo's guards, Goyle Sr., had not fluked and accidentally burnt a flower bed to kill a fly, just when a Light wizard – female, with oddly coloured hair – was sneaking by with a Disillusionment charm rippling around her. Her robe had caught the fire and her concentration on the charm was broken, thus attracting attention of the more competent guards, making them call on the hospital's wards and detect the other Light wizards lurking nearby.

The thing was, they had recognised the blind spot in the wards, the only hidden trail there, and they wouldn't have gotten this knowledge if they hadn't had a powerful ally in the Death Eater ranks... Harry himself had found out about the hole in the wards only while sneaking in on a conversation between Bella and Regulus, with the latter lamenting how even he couldn't do anything about it.

Had the Light wizards infiltrated the deeper parts of the Dark ranks than Harry had initially thought?

And another thing...

St Mungo's could be targeted for many reasons – the only wizarding hospital in Britain, a place with many potential hostages, a place which allegedly hosted the medical info on the Dark Lord of all people, and his real name, too, as well as the files on the entire wizarding population – including the injuries they had sustained, thus their weaknesses, and allergies and latent illnesses which could be triggered...

Yet, they had gone for the floor with the mentally ill patients.

This fact continued whirling about Harry's head, yet the teen couldn't fully grasp it, could only glimpse it like a golden sparkle of snitch in the mist before it would dance away from him.

_What use can it be? The insane are- well, insane._ _Unless the Order need advice on how to wreck tables with their heads or dance waltz in a tea cosy in the middle of the Ministry, I doubt they are going to help any_ _. Unless-_

Harry's eyes narrowed and a thought was breaking through the walls of confusion, about to illuminate the situation, when he remembered about Smith, and about where he was. Harry's countenance cleared of all deep thought.

There were things he could share, and there were things he couldn't.

"We'll shape them into Dark wizards yet." A smirk adorned Harry's face. Zacharias snorted in reply and gave a one-shoulder shrug.

"They'd rather incinerate you before you even get close to their headquarters."

"How about finding those headquarters first?" Harry interjected and crossed his arms over his chest. "With all your patriotism to the Dark, you cannot deny that the Light have hid themselves remarkably well. No hide or hair of them anywhere. They appear on the battlefield like a bunch of righteous furies, attack whatever building they hope to get a hold of or Dark family they plan to obliterate, lose, and vanish. No faces. No remarkable traits. Despite their overwhelming losses, in all these years, there've been less Light wizards captured than Dark ones dead."

"Luck?" Zacharias ventured but sighed at the sceptical expression Harry wore. "I wouldn't dwell too much on it, Potter, and considering your dubious thinking capacities, you shouldn't either. They are bound to blunder soon. These skirmishes have been going on for more than a decade. I bet the Dark Lord is simply humouring them."

"Humouring?" Harry threw his head back and laughed. "I love our Lord-"  _I must wash my tongue later._  "-but he's not omnipotent." Harry's laughter cut off as the teen engaged Zacharias's eyes in a hypnotising stare. "All of you are afraid to admit one thing: perhaps he's ignoring the problem not out of twisted pleasure but because things have long since spiralled out of his control?"

His sentence was met with silence, forlorn and a tad terrified. Harry's heart thumped in his ears, the noise loud and almost tangible and definitely heavy, a kind of pulsation that set his teeth on edge.

"Are you trying to get yourself creatively murdered, Potter?" Zacharias hissed, eyes flashing dangerously and his hands made to clasp the collar of Harry's school robe before he caught himself. "Malfoy would kill you for- ah, dishonouring the Dark Lord."

"Please, we all know Malfoy's star-struck fascination," Harry sneered and uncrossed his legs. Anxiety mingled with a sick anticipation: how did  _Zacharias_  react? What were the thoughts running through  _his_  head? "He would kill a butterfly if it dared flee from our Lord."

"Many others would, too." The words were a near-whisper.

Harry raised his eyebrow and his lips stretched in a cat-like grin. "I don't see you hurl Killing Curses at me."

Zacharias pressed his lips. "Yet. I somewhat like you, Potter, and, just for you to know, I'll shrug it off for now and pretend I've never heard this kind of sacrilege spoken of our Master, but others won't close their eyes on it."

Every word he said crashed on Harry's spirit like cobblestone and crushed his hopes just as heavily.

_So, he is like everyone else. Pity. I haven't mistaken in him completely; that tiny bit of trust I have is well-placed, t seems, since he hasn't hexed me for my 'blasphemy', but... he's not a person I can reveal even a tiny part of my plans to..._

Not that anyone ever would be worthy enough for Harry to unveil his schemes to, for him to share his true values and ideas and views.

Disappointment was a bitter taste of lemon in his mouth-

The thought of lemons reminded Harry of the Cruciatus, left the same acidic feel on the tip of his tongue. He stopped pondering it.

"Off you go, Smith. Your little entourage of friends is waiting." Harry picked up his potions textbook and leafed through the pages to check the units he had gone over. He didn't feel like continuing the conversation.

"I don't have friends," Smith groused in indignation and jumped to his feet. The few steps to the door, he bristled. When his hand grasped the handle, he spun and stated, "And you never will either, with this attitude of yours. Just because your parents were traitors and reaped the rightful punishment for it doesn't mean  _you_  have to be a martyr about it." The door slammed.

Harry's knuckles went white but he didn't look up.

How could he, when he forced the disappointment out and substituted it with the plans and schemes he had to scour through and choose the best, the most appropriate?

_First things first_ , Harry decided. He briefly contemplated whipping out a notebook to draw on, but those were too much of a liability: they could get into the wrong hands or he could lose them – highly unlikely yet possible.  _If I worm into the Order's ranks, no one will prevent me from asking their reasoning or their battle plans or even simple plans_ _._ _Surely_ _, their whole existence isn't narrowed down to destroying the Dark Lord?_

_If so, they are kind of dull._ Harry dutifully ignored the glaring fact that his own life centred around his vengeance against the Dark Lord.  _But nothing I can't work with. The letter mentions that I'll find them easily, and it mentions my father's Hogwarts years... Well, the conclusion is obvious: they have a spy at Hogwarts, too._

It didn't surprise Harry. A spy at Hogwarts would have the ability to not only tell Light wizards the ongoing happenings in the world more effectively than second rate Prophet articles – if one knew to listen in and spy, the children couldn't keep their mouths shut about their families, eagerly blabbering most private of events for moments of spotlight – but also detect the best students, like they had done with him, and search for ways to bring them to the Order's side – in Harry's case, the trigger was supposed to the memories of his parents and their working undercover for the Light.

One teensy problem for the Order?

_I have no intention of being their pawn._  Harry's hands clenched over the worn yellowed pages.  _I'd sooner crush the chess board than be one more mindless servant for them._

He had made up his mind long ago.

Risky, dangerous, ambitious... thrilling...

_I will play with them both,_  Harry swore to himself.  _The Order of the Phoenix had as much say in my parents' deaths as the Dark Lord, if not more. Both sides will trust me, think me a double spy but their own underneath, come to think of me as a right-hand man..._

_And perish._

The sooner he started searching for the leads, the sooner he would be free from the shackles of obligations to his dead parents. As much as Harry hated this sort of egoism in himself, his parents were long dead, yet their presences screamed revenge, and although he could do nothing but comply –  _wanted_  nothing but comply – sometimes he resented them for pushing those duties on his shoulders.

No matter.

_Soon. In a year or so, it'll be over._

And he knew exactly where to start.

The train drew to a halt.

Hogwarts loomed over the lake, as majestic and beautiful and full of promise as ever, and intrigue was brewing in its halls and classrooms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a review on your way out. It mightn't be a long one, but even words like 'I enjoy your story' motivate me a lot. If I see that my story isn't well received, it kind of drains me of the will to write, which leads to me writing at the speed of a drunk tortoise.


	4. When a Spider Weaves His Web

"Mudblood!" Goyle spat out. His beady rat-like eyes were running Harry's figure up and down, flames of lust in them mixed with flickers of hatred. The bulk he had acquired in his seventeen years of life didn't make him any more attractive than an overfed blasted skrewt. If the Slytherin's ego was large enough to believe Harry would lie with him, the mindless creature had to think again.

"Your range of insults is as limited as the number of your brain cells," Harry replied coolly, not looking up from a fragile ancient tome on battle magic. The name-calling used to hurt him, but not anymore. Out of the corners of his eyes, Harry watched Goyle dumbly open his mouth and process the information.

_Huh, I doubt he will make it before dinner._  Harry flipped the page, returning his attention to the fascinating book.  _If I believed in Goyle's brains, might as well believe that the Deathly Hallows are not a children's tale, and immortality exists_ _._

"It's time to go, guys," Draco Malfoy announced from his position at the mirror. The blond was fixing his green and silver tie, a cool and pleasant expression on his face. Turning his head to the sides, Malfoy checked for everything to be perfect. The blond spent a hellish amount of time in front of the mirror.

"But shouldn't we put the mudblood in place?" Goyle ground out. Harry only rolled his eyes and flicked another page.

_How boring._ _In seven years, one would think they could change the repertoire of questions and morning rituals_ _._

"And be late?" Malfoy curled his lip and finally turned away from the mirror, directing his attention to the lowly mortals. His hair was as blond as ever and height – here Harry narrowed his eyes in envy – as ridiculously tall as it had been the day before, the previous time in front of the mirror. Obviously, nothing drastic had changed in his body overnight, and the blond was happy.

Sometimes, Harry wished to join the Weasley twins and play a prank on the haughty pureblood heir.

Alas, with them being Gryffindors, it wasn't easy. His every gesture and wrong word would be analysed by the House of Lions. Not in his favour.

_Their loss, then, isn't it?_  Harry thought as Malfoy passed him without a nod or a word of acknowledgement, his face a frozen aristocratic mask of politeness merged with the airs of superiority.  _Typical. All purebloods are so charming. A bunch of rich toffs._

This time, however, something was different.

"We used to follow every word you said... But you're not so mighty anymore, are you, Malfoy?" Goyle bit out with a nasty smirk splitting the pudgy face in two, as his hand grabbed the quieter Crabbe before he could step up to Malfoy and follow him like usual. "We all saw the lil' blood traitor wipe the floor with you."

Harry raised an eyebrow and propped back on his elbows to observe the confrontation through half-lidded eyes. Malfoy's goons abandoning him? Not that big a shock, if he thought about it. Goyle's confidence in himself had been steadily increasing, proportionally to the growth of his duelling abilities – the bloke's style was rubbish, if it existed at all, but by flinging around bursts of pure power he succeeded in disabling his adversaries. Or killing them. Mercy? Overrated by a mile.

Malfoy stiffened. Harry realised, with a sharp sparkle of vindictiveness and malicious glee, that the blond barely resisted slumping his shoulders and shrinking in on himself under the razors of Harry's, Crabbe's, and Goyle's gazes.

The Crucio from Harry's wand had not only pained Malfoy; it had obliterated all the vestiges of authority the teen had had, shedding light on the weaknesses and faults of the pureblood, the ones previously hidden in the convenient darkness of the allure, and wealth, and prestige of the Malfoy name.

Ah, sweet, sweet revenge.

_You will live my life for a while, it seems, dear Draco. Blatant weakness, the kind you showed – in front of your beloved Dark Lord, no less! – is not tolerated in Slytherin._ _It_ _is despised_ _, resented, hated, and the person displaying it doesn't deserve so much as basic human mercy_ _._ _The only thing we can do to the whelps who whine at every littlest sign of pain or a mere scrape, is to end their useless existence_ _. Or make them top themselves. Not like someone would care, no?_

_Wasn't this what you told me after humiliating me in the middle of the meeting, all those years ago, after you had_ _publicly_   _hexed me_ _? And you were all taunting me, not a hand outstretched to help?_

"I see you've got yourself a backbone, Goyle?" Malfoy hissed, albeit still stiffly, while his clenched fists trembled just enough for the human eye to see.

"Jus' realised we're not what people call us – your gu- gone- goons! Yeah, that's the word. We don't have tah be this anymore, now that you're not our leader." He thought – which looked like a damn hard piece of work, mind you – for a moment before pointing a fat finger at Harry. "Besides, I want him."

"Terribly sorry," Harry said with disgust lacing his voice and cracked a crooked grin. "I don't go around lying underneath some slabs of lard. My bones are too fragile to survive under all this weight. And it wouldn't be a blast explaining to Madame Pomphrey how I've got a fracture."

"You will not touch him," the blond demanded from his peer, grey eyes narrowed and his upper lip curled. Harry blinked after shooting him a wide-eyed look of disbelief. " _Imagining_  you in a sexual relationship gives me day-mares, and considering that the only place to snog here is the dormitory, I will not have you two copulating under my watch. Keep it in your pants until the holidays, at least."

_Ah, that's closer to the poncy arse I know._

"I don't have-"

"Your family are still subservient to mine," Malfoy interrupted. Snakes of frost slithered up the enchanted windows of the Slytherin dormitory. "Or have you conveniently forgotten this tidbit? I order, you obey. Simple, really – even for your debatable brains."

Goyle stood still for a minute, sorting out this information, a constipated frown of thinking process clear on his face. Finally, with a glower and a 'fuck you' in Malfoy's direction off he stormed, probably to drown his sorrows and grudges in pumpkin juice and to stuff his face with a mountain of banana cupcakes. His loyal, mindless friend Crabbe by his side all the time.

"Oh, what's that, Malfoy?" Harry quipped, lounging lazily on the bed. His head tilted backwards. "Protecting me? How gallant."

Malfoy's body shook with fury, desperate rage, like a volcano before bursting with lava. When his head rose, his eyes gleamed with steel, and it was the most arousing look Harry had ever seen on him.

"How dare he!" the blond hollered. Harry winced from the sound. "After all I've done for him, all the chatting-up and butt-licking of professors so they would give him a passing mark-" His voice dramatically lowered. "After all we have been through together, all the moments we have shared..."

"Never thought you were so attached to those two laddish brutes," Harry remarked. He stood up and stretched, not noticing Malfoy's quick glance at his graceful arch of the body, akin to that of a cat's.

"A Malfoy must never walk alone," Malfoy griped, his knuckles whitening. "Father says it is undignified and shows one's decline in influence. There should always be someone on the flank to show that subservience to one of ours is something to be proud of." The haughty tone he had assumed, the one that told of lofty world of nobility and political prowess, evaporated when Malfoy added in a normal, waspish voice, "Besides, it is plain embarrassing. I would feel like a social washout going somewhere alone."

Harry chortled at that, picking up his school bag from the floor and adjusting the strap on his shoulder.

"It seems the Malfoys are out of fashion now. You'll get used to it, oh the walking pinnacle of dignity and pride."

"Of course." Malfoy's glacial eyes could freeze water, but not Harry as he gritted out, "Blood traitor must be acquainted with this kind of treatment."

"Intimately. And whose fault is that?" Harry gibed without real malice in his voice. He loathed Malfoy for the cruelty the blond had saturated Harry's childhood with, but sometimes the blue-eyed teen's remarks entertained him, too, and on those days he would feel lenient and wouldn't retort with one of his small but oh so satisfying  _revenges_.

He suppressed the urge to cackle. If they only knew. A Marauder's legacy doesn't die just so, not even in a jungle of bullying and endless, tiring struggles with it.

"But  _I_  am NOT!" the blond nearly shouted the last part. Frustration was rolling off him like an avalanche, accumulated since that night in the ballroom and only increased with the incessant jibes from the Hogwarts population and the proper pureblood community. A public humiliation wasn't forgotten easily, not in the days they lived in.

Harry surveyed Malfoy from the corner of his eye for several seconds. He shrugged.

"Anyway, oh illustrious local pureblood wonder, you may walk with me to the Great Hall if a few corridors alone are too big a scare for you."

_The reactions will be fun to see. I'll even endure your presence for that._

Malfoy sneered, and an expression as if he had just consumed a barrel of sourest lemons possible overtook his face, twisting it. "And that helps my situation so much, Potter. People will  _flock_  to me with admiration for parading around with a blood traitor hanging off my arm."

"Suit yourself," Harry threw nonchalantly, not really caring. His pleasant moments aside, Malfoy irked him most of the time.

Befriending the blond had been Harry's most coveted and secret dream in Harry's childhood, a zealously guarded wish he had never revealed to any living soul for fear of a landslide of criticism and onslaught of hatred, just like he had never let on that the general derision toppling him, a mere child of nine, had hurt him for all the poker-faced facade he maintained. The idiocies of his youth.

Thankfully, the fallacy of finding a friend in a Malfoy had abandoned him long ago. Harry had never asked it back.

As his polished shoe crossed the threshold, a loud outcry interrupted his musings, and not a moment later a set of school robes rustling alerted Harry of a person scampering to join him.

_Not so high an' mighty now, are we?_

"Changed your mind?" Harry didn't bother keeping the smug undertones out of his question. Malfoy's furious gaze burned.

"As if!" the blond squeaked indignantly and rushed past Harry's form into the corridor that led to the common room. "The way to the Great Hall is the same for all of us, imagine that."

Harry's lips hitched upwards as he lazily followed the other teen, and the glee shimmering in his eyes didn't wane even under the glowers that accosted the pair when they ambled through the common room. Not even when Parkinson spat insults and wailed at her 'dear, darling Drakey-pooh's descent into 'blood-traitorishness', and loudly proclaimed him a threat to all things dignified and pureblood, while Malfoy was slowly withering and hunching in on himself, yet clinging to Harry's presence like an overly dependent puppy you wanted to kick but spared in the end.

Malfoy's banishment wouldn't last long, what's with that family's historical position amongst wizards, but a debt of honour –  _that_  would. Oh, how fortunate it all was! Harry would help the boy, somewhat endear himself to him, protect him from bullies – and if those didn't show up, Harry could always use his dear Aunt's fortune and arrange some – all the while pretending to be besotted with Malfoy's favour and budding affection between them.

Yes, striking a 'friendship' with the Malfoy heir would benefit him.

And please Harry all the more when the time would come to show the blond how much he actually loathed him – after the sod had formed an attachment, of course. And after Harry had killed the leader of the Dark.

_Life is looking up._

* * *

Harry's target was sitting at one of the numerous rosewood tables of the library, proper and composed, not a brown hair out of the usual bird's nest she sported, not a wrinkle on her fine Ravenclaw robes. Perfect. Harry licked his lips.

Summoning his usual confidence and a guileless expression on his face, Harry strode to the girl he wanted to 'befriend'.

"You are Hermione Granger, right?"

The smile on Harry's face screamed 'fake' but was so utterly convincing that when the girl looked up in confusion only for her cheeks to redden, he just ticked the mental list. And here he had hoped things would be different with her...

Despite this, when her eyes immediately sharpened a moment later, this sparkle of infatuation snuffed out of existence and hastily forgotten, when she straightened out and surreptitiously covered the titles of the books scattered across the table with a great piece of parchment, when she replied with a charming smile of her own, Harry confirmed that the rumours didn't lie and indeed Hermione Granger was a capable witch not only in the book department.

Then again, there usually was much more truth to rumours than people liked to believe.

"Harry Potter, right?" the girl retorted without motioning him to sit down and join her. Her eyes narrowed in suspicion at his abrupt attempt to talk to her out of his own volition after so many years of maintaining a level of cool respect between them, no warm feelings seeping in. Obviously, she sensed something dodgy about it. Clever girl.

Harry covered a smirk by an embarrassed cough.

_But not clever enough._

"I know we've never really talked before and all..." he began in a soft voice, conveying awkwardness with his inept shuffles and a shy quirk of lips. This part was important. He had to play it right. "Still, I thought I'd ask you- I mean, you really are the best person for this, I think, so-"

Hermione's eyes softened by a margin and when she spoke, there was no real bite. "How about getting to the point? I still have an essay to do – the laws of permanent transfiguration of body parts can wait, but Professor McGonagall won't."

Harry made his eyes brighten and face light up as he nodded enthusiastically and pulled a chair to plop down with a loud sound.

"Exactly!" he exclaimed and shot a charming grin at Hermione. "This is what I want to talk to you about."

"The laws of permanent transfiguration?" Hermione raised an unimpressed eyebrow. Brown eyes now glazed with wariness, she probed, "Um... Sorry to tell you, of course, but at the rate you are going now, Potter, don't you think it might be over the top?"

Line, hook, and sinker. Harry loved his mask of a witless dueller; it left so much room for improvisation.

"Exactly," he repeated and leaned over the table, grasping one of her smooth, dainty hands in his own, and continued with a plaintive sigh. "I want you to tutor me."

At first, she stared. Then, she let out a chuckle of merry laughter, which erased the tension in her lips and forehead, and it struck Harry that this was the only time he had ever seen her so full of mirth and without a disapproving frown or scowl.

"I don't do any tutoring," she finally said after calming down, looking surprised at her outburst and pointedly staring at her quill instead of Harry, unwilling to acknowledge that he had made her laugh.  _And is it regret I see here?_ "I'm sorry. You have to find someone else. I think Padma, Terry, or Su would love to teach you, you know."

Harry shook his head with vigour, appearing frantic, although inside he was drifting in a sea of calmness. She would agree. Simply because Dumbledore wouldn't give her any other choice: according to the teen's suspicion – and those, modesty aside, usually proved to be true – she was one of the Order's spies, and the man would never let an opportunity to have Harry on his side slip. Just like the Dark Lord, Harry was sure, would make his move soon and secure Harry's subservience.

It felt wonderful to be the tool everyone fought so fiercely to have on their side, in their misguided superiority forgetting that Harry had his own agenda and had smarts and abilities to counteract whatever manipulation they threw at him.

Just like he was doing now.

"You don't understand," Harry said in a soft, hollow voice. His beautiful face scrunched up in a grimace of misery and beseech. Hermione reached to squeeze his hand, her own eyes bleeding with confusion and an undercurrent of eager anticipation – she didn't get to hear other's secrets often, and another bit of knowledge always came in handy. "No one really does. It's not Transfiguration itself that bothers me. No, not quite. I could be a total dunce in it like Crabbe, and I wouldn't care, but I have someone who does..." he trailed off suggestively.

Hermione's puzzlement was palpable until it hit her and she gasped, covering her mouth with a hand, her pretty brown eyes wide with-

Was it fear? Concern? For  _him_? Harry gritted his teeth to keep himself from an incredulous snort, his mind as if blocked, hindered from the onslaught of warm feeling threatening to churn in his chest.

It was just a game. She was a pawn. Nothing more. There would be no real feelings of affection and companionship between them, because that desire remained one more prisoner in the confines of Harry's jarring childhood, that imaginary jail filled with the broken bits of all his wishes and aspirations, the ones he had locked up and forgotten in his bid for revenge.

Vengeance was everything for him now, the very keystone of his way of life. Without it, he would simply crumble under the negativity, pain, suffering, denial, disappointment, cruelty, which were the bricks of his existence.

_Not vengeance,_  Harry corrected himself.  _Justice._ _Voldemort will receive his due, and I'm sure people will only thank me for that later, despite the sacrifices they will have to make_ _. What's that saying Grindelwald's so famous for? Ah, yeah. 'For the Greater Good', it all is._

"Bellatrix Lestrange," Hermione snapped him out of his musings, apprehension growing on her thin face as she cocked her head and stared. "Your adoptive... mother."

"Not  _mother_!" Harry snapped and thumped his fist on the table, furious. Seeing Hermione flinch and inhale, hearing the smack echo in the library brought him back to the situation he was in. He reassured Hermione with a twitchy grin and a wave of his hand. Perhaps he could use it, after all. His next words were a whisper. "She's not my mother-"

"I'm so sorry," Hermione cut in and reached to trace a finger down his cheek. "Oh, Harry – I'll call you Harry, all right? – it was so stupid, so insensitive of me- I should have realised you are still sore after your parents' death and it's inconsiderate of me-"

Harry held up a hand to stop her and surreptitiously moved away from her fingers. He didn't like people touching him. Usually, it meant only pain or trouble.

"You are right, it's inconsiderate." He blathered on before she could utter a word. "Still, Bellatrix is not my mother but she is my guardian and holds a lot of control over me and my life. You can't imagine the nasty things she can do..." The shudder he did not have to fake.

"And, of course, she needs you to have great marks," Hermione finished for him. Harry nodded with a grateful smile.

_Finally, we are going somewhere._

"Yes. Transfiguration included. And you are the best in the subject."

Hermione nibbled on her bottom lip and fiddled with her fingers, still uncertain. She probably hadn't yet received any missive from Dumbledore explaining Harry's potential affiliations, and was now swinging back and forth between duty and compassion like a pendulum, pitying Harry and wanting to help him, but unsure of how her leader would take her gallivanting around with the ward of the notorious Dark witch.

Well, there was always the tiny chance she wasn't one of the spies in Hogwarts at all, but the probability was so slim it was laughable. Harry couldn't be mistaken here.

_So, I_ _just_   _need to prompt her a bit. Easy,_ _really_ _._

"You have some trouble with Duelling, right?" Harry questioned innocently and grinned at her affronted scowl as she drew back and huffed and crossed her arms over her chest. So easy to rile up. That might be a disadvantage in the future. He needed his 'link' to be calmer. Well, they would work on it, if time afforded.

"I do NOT!" she hissed like the Dark Lord's snake that visited Lestrange Manor all year round, carrying messages from her master. "I am doing wonderfully, thank you very much! My marks are perfectly above adequate and our professor never complains and- Honestly, Harry Potter, what gave you the idea?"

"Maybe these?" Harry lifted the parchment spread on the table and revealed the dusty tomes on the art of duelling, battle spells, and defensive shields. He tapped his chin in mock contemplation. "Hmm... What might they be, I wonder? After all, you so clearly expressed you have no need for additional research on duelling, huh?"

"There is no limit to perfection," Hermione insisted, once again looking anywhere but him. The obviousness annoyed Harry.

_How am I supposed to use the blasted girl if she can't mask her bloody feelings if her life depended on it? And it will. Of course it will, with what I've planned for her._

"This might be the truth," Harry drawled calmly and waited until she relaxed. "But you don't even hit the mark of 'really good', Gran- Hermione. Sorry to burst you bubble."

"Now you are behaving exactly like I would expect you to after hearing the rumours," Hermione hissed. Even her hair seemed to acquire a life of its own, and Harry wouldn't be surprised to see it morph into snakes and parrot their mistress. "Arrogant, haughty, self-important-"

"Self-assured, and nothing of what I've said to you is a lie," he snapped before regaining his control and schooling his features into that softness and vulnerability people like Hermione adored, swooned over. "I  _need_  to better my Transfiguration, Hermione. The awful things she will do to me if I don't... Please, you must help me."

Harry summoned a pathetic, pitiful expression he would never otherwise wear on his face and peered at her through his thick eyelashes. Victory flooded him when determination was slowly eating away at the hesitance on her face. Just a little push.

"Do you want me to tell you how much she hurt me?" he addressed her. In a flurry of black robes with silver and green trimmings, and a ponytail of black hair, he latched onto her arm – he didn't mind the contact when he initiated it – and clutched it tight. "This is important, Hermione. I know you have plenty of twits crowding you all the time and pestering you with all those half-arsed excuses for why you must do their work for them, but with me, only two hours a week will be enough."

_Enough to influence you and turn you to my side, because I'm here and Dumbledore is not, and you want recognition, which I will give you after killing the Dark Lord_ _. After all, I've got no intention of dying after that._ _And survival isn't guaranteed if you_ _are hunted by_   _sycophantic worshippers bent on revenge_ _._

_So, my dear, when I'm through with him, the title of his defeater is all yours._

"All right," Hermione finally relented, her sharp mind drowsy with sympathy Harry professionally invoked in her. Abruptly, she raised her chin high and puffed out her chest. "And there is no need for duelling lessons, Po- Harry. I am studying by myself."

"You need them," Harry insisted. Having her as an ally and then let her die would be bothersome. Finding another strong-willed puppet would be a back-breaking chore, and Harry would rather spare himself that. "'Perfectly above average' doesn't mean much when half the class are doing superb, and the professor never complains only because you are a muggleborn, thus he doesn't give a damn."

"Are you a blood purist?" Hermione demanded sharply, her eyes narrowed.

_Oh no, my dear, we are not diverging from the topic._

"It'd be hypocritical of me to be," Harry placated her with a patient countenance and inclined his head, making raven-black hair fall on his eye. "Blood traitor, remember? Besides, my mother was a muggle. It would be disrespectful to all my memories of her to disparage this heritage."

"Oh." She looked properly chastised, deflated. "Today is a strange day. I have never behaved so inconsiderately before."

Harry shrugged and allowed a small smile to dance on his lips. "Even geniuses can have a day off from being so composed. It happens. Anyway, my aid will be necessary to you."

At her protests, he threw her an exasperated glance.

"You are barely keeping up, Hermione," he reproved her mildly and smirked. "I, on the hand, am the best damn duellist in this entire school. If anyone can help you, it's me. Not least because initially I had problems with this subject."

"You did?"

"Yeah." Harry nodded and noticed how enraptured Hermione became, the way she bent forward in interest, eager to hear how he had acquired his current skill. "Believe it or not, I couldn't cast a Stupefy without it backfiring." A chuckle bubbled out of his throat before he swallowed to cut it off and pierced Hermione with a freezing stare. "And then I realised I needed it. I needed to become stronger. Needed to be able to fight, if only to put up a good fight with Malfoy and his posse. And they are nagging you, too, right?"

Hermione slowly tilted her head in agreement, and her eyes gleamed, and Harry knew he had her.

"I know that many of them underwent some training in summer, since we're now expected to take our duties as Death Eaters seriously." He refused to think of the cursed mark on his forearm. It was too much. "They are no match for me, but they'll wipe the floor with you-"

"Always so full of yourself, Potter!" a familiar voice butted in, and even before turning his head, Harry mentally sighed. Really, what was he expecting? Where Hermione was, Ron Weasley always stalked.

"Is there a course of some sort for timing your dramatic entrances like you do?" Harry asked coolly without deigning to snap his head to look at the newcomer.

Weasley ignored him. Weird, that. Usually the redhead blistered and snarled and yelled and-

Oh, of course. Hermione Granger was there.

"Hey, Hermione, are you okay?" The gangly teen walked up to the Ravenclaw and started checking – more like 'feeling up' – her for injuries before she went red and shook his hands off herself, shoving him away. Weasley's freckled face crumpled in hurt, and Harry realised with dread that this was akin to an episode from a family drama. "You didn't have to push me this hard! I was only trying to make sure you're okay after-"

"Yes, Ronald Weasley, I'm perfectly okay after spending an hour  _having a pleasant talk_ , imagine that! But I will not be so okay if you don't make yourself scarce this very moment! Please. Before I do something... unfortunate."

"I- I just-" Weasley stammered, red splotches on his face, and lifted both of his hands to shield himself from the girl's fury. "I didn't know! I mean, he's a Slytherin and all, so-"

"If your sight is usually failing you so badly as your brain," Harry drawled with a pleasant smile on his face, standing up, "I can tell you that half the students are Slytherins. It's pretty prestigious, you know, with the Dark Lord being one."

The redhead's expression contorted into rage as he spat, "A slimeball like you would know. After all, sucking up is the only way to be a squad leader with your dubious smarts and abilities."

"Squad leader?" A frown creased Harry's forehead and he refused to believe what had to be unmistakeable, yet so very mind-boggling that there was a dam on his comprehensive ability. "What are you yapping about, Weasley?"

With a nasty grin, the taller teen mocked, "What, your secret is out now? Afraid that everybody's gonna know that you're some upstart git's lapdog now, 'cause this is the only way for you to have this position when they denied it to me, though I'm so much stronger than you and-"

"Weasley!" Harry's sharp shout cut through the rant and severed it like it would a thin thread. The mentioned teen cringed and shivered under the suddenly astute and intense pair of bright green eyes, which bore into him with a frightening amount of malicious force. Harry stood up and raised his chin, demanding, "Explain right now!"

"You are a slime bucket," Weasley gritted out and marched up to Harry in all his scruffy glory. Yet, he stopped just the right respectful step away, wary of Harry's shark-like smile. You can't drown a self-preservation instinct completely, after all. "That's all there is to know."

"Do you have a masochistic streak of sorts?" Harry asked incredulously and closed that distance between them to grab the Gryffindor red and gold tie and pull it, ignoring Hermione's gasp behind the redhead. Despite possessing a smaller frame, Harry displayed clearly who was in control here. A spell buzzed beneath his fingertips, ready to shoot off on his command, and Weasley's scared face spurred him on, and their magic clashed and overlapped them, and filled Harry with delightful energy.

It was exhilarating. To have this control. Knowing, that a mere pull of will – and Harry's magic would incinerate the boy, being too strong to submit to any other's.

"Headmaster Dolohov asked me to pass on a message to you."

"I'm waiting. And Mordred forbid you make me wait a minute more. Not all people have the time to dally here, so chop chop."

The abhorrence on Weasley's face? Precious.

"Fine. You're to meet Dolohov tomorrow at six-something to discuss your placement as a squad leader. They're granting you the title 'cause you're so powerful or whatever. You'll speak to him. Now, release me!"

Harry complied, his mind still locked on the fact that he had unwittingly snatched the position many coveted, and patted Weasley's cheek.

"Not so hard, was it? If you behave, with time you'll realise that playing a good boy will get you much farther with me than acting so annoyingly tough all the time. It's stupid. You should've simply told me the information sooner and trotted off to whatever brooding lair you have."

"Harry!" Hermione berated with an irritated scowl.

"Well, off I go!" Harry flashed her a smile which was marginally warmer than his usual fakes. "Cheers and I'll find you somehow to discuss when and where we're going to meet."

"Hermione! You can't! I- I won't let you go with him wherever he wants you to, 'cause, you know, he'll lure you in, trick you, and do something- something bad or worse, and-"

Harry didn't stick around to hear what the rest of the rant was about, busy as he was. And this animosity wasn't novel to him.

Apparently, the fact that Harry didn't struggle every day against the unfairness of blood purists and the Dark Lord's reign in general was a dark mark against him in Ron Weasley's book.

Harry could certainly live with that.

And Hermione...

He had been hesitant to approach her, even as he had contemplated the idea in the stern darkness of Lestrange Manor, lying in his bed, exhausted, feeling as if he had passed through a colander but in reality had merely endured another perilous bit of training with Rodolphus.

Yet, she was the most probable candidate for the role of the Order's spy.

It couldn't be anyone on the staff – that much was sure. Oh, Harry was so certain not because of some misguided faith he had in McGonagall, Flitwick, Babbing, and some others, not to mention that's he could always whiff something fishy about Snape. Harry wasn't daft, and, sadly, neither was Voldemort.

The Dark Lord didn't want to lose capable teachers, because those were hard to come by, so he had tweaked the dark marks of all former or suspected members of the Resistance movement so that they were now physically unable to betray him.

Harry heard that some chit had tried it. She had been so happy after relaying a piece of information to her allies. Right up until she exploded and her entrails hung all over her husband.

So, students were left.

Purebloods and, for the most part, halfboolds were bloody happy under Voldemort's rule, so that left him contemplating mudbloods and blood traitors like himself, and Harry knew the signs of wavering loyalty to the Dark when he saw it.

Hermione Granger was perfect spy-material. She was intelligent, albeit not very covert while lying, seemingly rule-abiding – she hadn't lost a point in all her Hogwarts years – and meek, and also appeared resigned to her station in the world, even though most other mudbloods waged attempted wars on Hogwarts staff and students, trying to return the course of things to the pre-Voldemort's days.

While people like Ron Weasley, Seamus Finnigan, and Justin Finch-Fletchley ran around the castle like headless chicken in hopes of causing some ruckus here and there, pointlessly battling against the system, she sat back, and observed, and memorised. Much like Harry.

And if Harry could see the benefits of the girl, so would Dumbledore.

And, probably, Voldemort, which was why Harry hadn't outright stated his sudden burning love for the Light and a desire to jump sides. The Dark Lord had eyes everywhere.

Making Harry all the more excited to wriggle out of those traps and accomplish his mission.

He preferred thinking about his goals and successes instead of nightmares and what being a Death Eater comprised.

* * *

No matter how much Harry scrubbed, it would not go away.

The droplets of water beat down his body in an endless stream as he stood under the shower, tense, shoulders trembling, and rubbed his arm, that place previously unmarred but now tainted with the image of a skull and a snake. The skull's open jaws eerily resembled a mocking smile.

He had that horrifying claim forever etched onto his skin, a symbol of his subservience, one that wouldn't go away even long after Voldemort's death – always there, always a reminder.

Still, so many people  _wanted_ to carry that claim... Harry remembered Malfoy's vain pride, and Nott's quiet anticipation, and Zabini's shiver of excitement... And those were all his housemates! Voldemort-besotted people were many, all across the country and going far beyond it.

Very often, when he was afraid to dream his nightly horrors, unwilling to plunge in the darkness of his memories, Harry lay at night thinking what made people cater to the whim of a deranged psychopath, because surely that was all Voldemort had ever been – a batty delusional loon with an illusion that he was destined to have the world.

And yet...

Harry remembered the man's charisma, remembered the pull he had felt to him despite the loathing, remembered the seductive whispers and surprisingly pleasant voice-

If he hadn't been the one to order his parents' deaths, would Harry be just one more member of the world-wide fan club?

The idea frightened him. Mostly because of its high probability.

_But he did order it,_  Harry told himself firmly.  _And without a strong reason, too._ _If my parents did something_ _truly_   _nefarious, then yes, I would forgive him because that would be him acting for the country's benefit_ _. But they didn't._

His path was set. For the rest of the evening, Harry chided himself for ever doubting it and succumbing to Voldemort's dubious charms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks and rays of affection to my readers and reviewers! All the update info is on my profile :D


	5. Dance with Me, I Need It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, this chapter contains a big Tom/Harry part. Also, while this is not the first battle scene I've ever written, it's the first battle scene I've ever posted, so I hope it's not too disappointing.

_September, 7th_

Antonin Dolohov was someone with rotting teeth (where they existed at all), typical wizarding dress sense (read: lack of it), and an affinity for annoying, long-winded, preaching speeches (when you got him talking at all; usually the man used simple trollish grunts to communicate).

Oh, and, coincidentally, he was the Headmaster of Hogwarts.

In retrospect, Harry could understand why Voldemort appointed him this honourable position.  _Exactly_  for his flaws. For his slaverish subservience, and grovelling, and hatred of all things not Dark-Lord-worshipful, because it enabled a complete control over Hogwarts for the Dark Lord, seeing that even Snape, bound by the dark mark as he was, could weasel out of some less pleasant school decisions or let slip information on wards or other defences.

A reverential marionette, on the other hand?

"You wanted to see me, Headmaster?" Harry asked in a neutral drawl.

"Believe meh, Potter, I would've gone perfectly without," Dolohov groused out with a sneer. His disgust was tangible in the dimly lit office littered with magical equipment like Sneakoscopes and foe-mirrors and the like. No book in sight – but that was to be expected.

Dolohov's narrow mildew eyes zeroed in on Harry as he continued in the same rough tone that belied his unwillingness to speak, "Weasley must've told yeh already, no? Congratulations and all that rot; you're promoted tah a squad leader."

Harry advanced further into the room, from the corner of his eye catching sight of a few portraits leaning over in interest, as if escaping the confining frames to observe him, all the while accompanied by soft murmurs of no greater volume than quiet whispers of tree crones in autumn.

"Why? What about Malfoy or Nott? They're both superb in their studies, amongst the first in our year. I imagined they would be given this privilege."

Mostly because professors favour them, Harry wanted to spitefully add, but that was a lie: as no good as their personalities were, both chaps duelled like pros and kept up with other coursework – a fact that Harry's public persona couldn't boast of.

Of course, there was more than one squad leader in a year, but rarely more than two in a House, so for him to get the position...

Dolohov let out a long-suffering sigh that spoke of long years of enduring misery as the headmaster, and his face soured.

"Whatcha know of squads, Potter?"

"There are usually five or six of them in a year," Harry replied immediately as he plopped down on a hard-backed spindly chair that looked almost like a spider on its thin legs. He was in for a long illuminating teaching session, it seemed. Trust Dolohov to be a brute about it and forego offering a seat. "Each comprises 'round six-seven persons including a squad leader and an instructor. The instructor is a Death Eater out of Hogwarts, usually somewhere in the mid-tier, sometimes, if a squad is pathetic, from the lower ranks, but never from the Inner Circle."

While for a couple of years the squads retained their original members, later they would either drop dead on a mission or get maimed to the point of utter uselessness, and then the structure of the squad changed. New people were rarely added. Squads often decreased in size to duos and trios, at times even solos.

"Yeah, that's one way tah phrase it." Dolohov nodded with a rare spark of approval lifting one corner of his lips. "And who, yeh think, 's in charge'v appointin' the leaders n'instructors?"

Harry scoffed at the silly question – who did the man take him for? – before it hit him and he exhaled.

"The Dark Lord."

Stupid. Of course Dolohov would be as puzzled as Harry in this case. Everyone trusted Voldemort's judgement, and to them Harry's appointment meant that something was afoot. Maybe a brilliant scheme to reveal the blood traitor's dastardly traitorous plot, or maybe that Harry hid more secrets than people imagined.

Well, if shove came to push and his real nature was discovered, Harry would use that, too.

"That's it, Potter." Dolohov sent him a crooked grin that morphed into a sneer a second later. "If it were meh, I'd never  _thought_ of allowin' yeh anywhere near power, but the Dark Lord sees somethin' in yah... Dontcha dare disappoint him," he boomed in the end, to which Harry replied with a countenance as indifferent as tides of time.

"I live to serve him." The lie rolled easily off his tongue, pushed by the eternity of practice in shrugging off the words and orders that rankled him. "Who are the members and the instructor? And what about missions? Are you going to give them to me- us?"

Dolohov chuckled darkly, and Harry resisted the urge to clobber the man. Despite the facade he maintained daily, he didn't like people laughing at him. Reminded him too much of his pathetic childhood.

"That's the fun part, Potter, yeh see?" His eyes stabbed into Harry's. "The Dark Lord wishes yeh tah come tah 'im today at- was it eight? Anyway, the slip's yours in case someone's gonna catch yeh roaming the halls at night."

Harry swallowed. Again and again.

No. That couldn't happen. Not at all. Harry wouldn't allow it!

The Dark Lord had been haunting his mind and memories for days now, ever since that night, and Harry refused to worsen this- dare he say it? Obsession with his parents' murderer. His panic clasped his heart with a greying hand and clawed at his throat when he attempted to utter his protests, stumbling through words.

Let them think he was afraid of the Dark Lord. They wouldn't know the real reason.

"No 'buts'," Dolohov snapped and allowed his magical aura spread around him in a mantle of fury. "That's an order."

* * *

_10:00 p.m._

The halls of Slytherin Manor were just as cold, unfriendly, dark, and threatening as Harry remembered.

His soft footsteps weren't muffled by the thin Persian carpets covering the black marble that radiated magic. The manor was a living entity almost – like Hogwarts, enticing, with its walls and floors and doors and furniture, every last item of it, radiating power that  _shifted_  at his approach. It was wary of him, but at the same time strangely giddy.

Greater power sung ahead.

It was a beacon, a sweet siren's song as hauntingly beautiful as seas and oceans, and as wrecking as maelstroms. For now, the allure was the guiding force, and the danger was hiding a touch under the surface, in wait for a victim to drift into it before engulfing the unfortunate soul.

Harry felt every bit that victim as the foreign but so familiar magic led him further into the lair, past Greek-styled statues and tapestries with naiads, past warded cherry wood tallboys and marble busts, past heavy velvet drapes and mysterious doors with who-knew-what lurking behind...

Harry didn't like it.

This was supposed to be the Dark Lord's lair, and yet the lack of attributes associated with this title inspired a sense of doubt and uncertainty.

Where was the blood streaming down the walls in steady waterfalls? The mountains of skulls decorating the throne room? The walls of bones like in the ossuary of the Paris catacombes?

Albeit, remarkably, there were no portraits. Harry had noticed it even during his first visit to the place.

Portraits were two-way. The bits of souls stuck in portraits could move from one frame to another effortlessly. With enough cunning and craftiness – even from the citadel of Light to the citadel of Dark.

Of course, it wasn't  _that_ easy, and they would need to know the spell Harry had invented exactly for that purpose, and there were a few limitations...

Still. Harry wondered to which side he would trade that secret. It could be a stalking-horse in the end, distracting either Voldemort or Dumbledore from other hush-hush activities of his.

The siren-like allure crescendoed. Harry's heels clanked together as he stopped in front of a door that looked as inconspicuous as any – plain, without any ornaments, surprisingly devoid of fancy wood or gold plates with inscriptions like  _Beware of an angry Dark Lord_  or other swanky decorations. So, the man had  _some_  modesty and style, it seemed.

_If I can get Draco Malfoy to give me a rant without a single insult, surely I can do this, too._

Harry drew in a deep breath, knocked at the door, grasped the doorknob and entered, without waiting for a reply.

"Good afternoon, my Lord," he murmured with his eyes closed before the door clicked close and he opened them.

Virescent clashed with claret.

"Fashionably late, right, Mr. Potter?" The man was amused, Harry noticed furiously,  _amused_ and with a tight-lipped smile forming the words into a purr.

Harry forced his stiff form into relaxation, remembered his mother's handy advice, remembered his mask, adjusted his stony expression into a charming smile with inlay of cheek seeping through, and gritted out the reply, as fake as Harry himself.

"I was held off."

A small deception, one of many. Harry had dreaded the face-off and hidden away until the boundaries of propriety were not only stretched but combusted. Two hours of delay.

The Dark Lord tsked. Mocking. Taunting.  _Knowing_.

"By a childish fit of stubbornness, I presume? Truly, Mr. Potter, I admit to being disappointed that after all those years you still haven't figured out that I know everything about my loyal subjects." Voldemort particularly stressed the word 'loyal'.

Harry couldn't contain a shudder of discontent that rushed through him. Know everything? Impossible. Couldn't be. Harry covered his tracks well, with death and torture as his faithful assistants at his beck and call, with no soul he entrusted any of his secrets, with no liabilities like friends or family to blabber out the data on him.

Harry's breath grew quicker. Voldemort's smirk was one of victory. The older man stood up, revealing his impressive height and strong built, and sauntered to one of the bookshelves lining the walls of the study. He didn't speak until his browsing fingers pulled out one of the books – a frangible tome of thin pages, and worn edges, and coming-off title Harry couldn't decipher from his position at the door.

"Now, it is going to be a long talk. Fancy sitting down, Mr. Potter?"

"I'm comfortable like this," Harry lied. His eyes drilled into the infuriating man's back. "We can skip the niceties if you want to, my Lord. I'm not a pleasantries sort of person."

"Why, I have noticed. You certainly don't do that small talk thing," the Dark Lord mused.

Harry watched him with ever-growing wariness and anxiety. The man was placid. Too placid. Harry steeled himself for  _Crucios_  to come.

"You are not beating around the bush either," Voldemort continued. He flipped through the pages. "Still, I insist." Danger, danger, danger.

_Ah, and here it comes. Knew you'd be unable to keep a conversation going without cheery threats of violence breaking out and such._

Harry's lips thinned with fury, but he complied. His eye spying around the office for a nice armchair to drop in, he realised it was the first time he shifted his gaze away from the statuesque figure at the bookshelves, away from the source of all this power that echoed across the walls and crooned at him, almost in an arousing caress raising small hairs on the back of his neck and rendering him breathless.

Impermissible.

Harry flopped into a black armchair and gathered his scant magical barriers specifically designed to drive the influence of lords out. He had been training in it for the whole summer, but still the ejection of that pressure proved to be a challenge.

Harry set his jaw. He wasn't a stranger to challenges.

Cool determination clicked into place.

"Why me?"

"A loaded question." Pages still flickered. The Dark Lord didn't turn to look at him, and Harry felt- what was that? A feeble twinge of dissatisfaction? Harry beat it down in a surge of wrath. "I believe you must know the answer already. If not, I am severely disappointed in your presumed deductive abilities. Come on, come on, I was sure I discerned some brain matter behind that pretty face of yours."

Harry bristled with resentment and humiliation, the flush on his cheeks a firebrick colour.

He was torn. On the one hand, he couldn't backchat the man too much, Mordred forbid it would bring even more of Voldemort's presence into his life (because not to sound conceited or anything, Harry knew he was a good conversationalist when didn't have to hide his true self).

On the other hand... the pull was just too strong.

Harry analysed his options and came to a decision that even if he let a meagre touch of smarts resurface, it wouldn't totally destruct his persona. He would survive.

The Dark Lord, meanwhile, wasn't through with his speech.

"Well, if you do prove to be that incompetent, I will help you work it out. Start talking. I am looking forward to correcting you."

_Tough chance. There won't be a single mistake for you to catch. I'm a master of my cloak-and-dagger craft, and I'm a master of conclusions. I'm well aware of what you need me for._

"In our last encounter you mentioned that you're keeping track on me because of my heritage," Harry began, crossing his legs in a graceful motion. "It'd be foolish of you to allow a potential threat like me gallivant around unsupervised- not that I'm a threat, of course."

Voldemort's lips quirked into a mocking smirk as he flipped another page of the book he was holding.

"A threat? I would be careful with your ego, child. No, at the moment you are nothing more than a mere nuisance."

Harry gritted his teeth and balled his hands into fists. His nails scraped tender skin, drawing blood, and he applied all his restraint to maintain the wobbly half-smile on his face.

"Still," Harry insisted in a calmer tone that concealed the raging volcano inside, but barely – a few disdainful words would rip it apart. Harry could dance around anyone but  _him_. "My actions could bring you problems had I been a traitor, so you observe me along with other wizards in similar positions... And that's how you found out about my duelling capabilities and achievements."

Voldemort inclined his head. Harry chanced a glance into his eyes. Once again, the crimson captured him with its intensity and swirling magic, and Harry swallowed and turned away, glaring stubbornly into a coffee table.

A taunting gaze skewered the side of Harry's face.

"You appointed me because of my power, obviously."  _Because you want it to be yours._ "And because you wish to continue your monitoring."  _More like stalking. Because you want to control me and never let me out of sight._

That was the easy part. Harry knew it wasn't all, because the Dark Lord was a tricky bastard and layered all his plans with hundreds of strata, making the road to the heart of his schemes thorny and complex.

"Duel with me, child."

The demand was unexpected. Harry blanched and blinked.

"Excuse me, my Lord?"

The man slammed the book shut as pale lips spilled the mind-boggling words, "I want to test the extent of your esteemed abilities. In a duel, of course. There is no better way to weed out the trash than a good battle, although-" Voldemort's eyes travelled across Harry's form. "-I believe you have a great future ahead of you."

The Dark's Lord's predatory stalk as he advanced towards Harry reeked of veiled mysteries and plans. He outstretched a hand to help Harry out of the armchair, to which the teen ground his teeth so hard he thought he would reach the gums.

"Great future, indeed."

There was something in the phrase, in the way it was said. Harry narrowed his eyes, standing up without supporting himself on the offered appendage and shaking the hand off as covertly as he managed.

"Is there any other future under your rule?"

_Keep up the reverential tone,_  Harry reminded himself.  _Don't slip. What are those moments of humiliation next to the grand revenge?_

The Dark Lord's lips hitched up.

"We do not duel here. Come to the training room."

* * *

"I want you to unleash your powers, Mr. Potter. Every last bit of it. If I sense you leaving even a drop inside, I will not hesitate to shorten the number of squad leaders my Death Eaters have."

The Dark Lord, tall and imposing and dressed into impeccable dark battle robes with runes etched at the hems, cut a picture of force to be reckoned with. His power lapped around them both, enveloping and caressing, its song as enticing as ever and luring Harry to step closer, to embrace it and submit, to serve and to never let go-

He cut off this train of thought.

"Understood, my Lord." Harry bowed mock-reverentially. He could barely contain shudders of anticipation, the thrill of it all. He was going to duel with the Dark Lord! Perfect practice for the future.

The eagerness was a smothering cocoon that wrapped him up into its welcoming fold and blinded him to the worries outside of the austere, vast training room both males were standing face to face in.

Harry was powerful. It was a polished sort of power, like a gem he had been refining for years, ever since the goal had been set and determination kicked in. Nothing like Goyle's sheer but blind power bursts or Hermione mixing theory with practice and thus failing. Harry trained himself arduously, daily, without mercy to himself, until the grime of inexperience was gone and the gem shone in the raw darkness of most other wizards' inability.

Of course, he couldn't let out  _everything_ here, but...

"Good.  _Avada Kedavra_!"

Harry dodged fast, throwing himself to the floor, as his eyes went wide. The Killing Curse! That, he wasn't prepared for.

A delighted laughter rang out in the room. Harry steeled himself.

Maybe he needed to revise his plan about not using all his storehouses of magic.

"Now, Mr. Potter, don't be under the fallacy that I have a notion of mercy. My warning stays true. I want to see all you have in store, and I do not take kindly to disappointment.  _Crucio_."

Harry quickly conjured a wooden table that shattered when the red beam collided with it. He used the time to stumble to his feet and gather his wits. The Dark Lord only tsked at the missed hit.

Harry raised his wand and shouted, " _Explosivae Catena_!"

A tiny fireball burst out from his wand, followed by a few others, all rushing at high speed at the Dark Lord, who stood bored in his wait. The man summoned a Protego shield with a few flicks of his wand, so when the tiny fireballs augmented and erupted, the ashes placidly dropped to the ground, forming a burnt circle around the man.

"Too slow, child." Voldemort clucked his tongue and threw a sequence of curses, starting from a simple  _Stupefy_ and ending with a  _Crucio_  and a powerful Slashing Curse. By organising the chain in that way, he wearied down the opponent with having to dodge the easy curses first to then miss the ones that mattered. "I am disappointed.  _Try_  to be challenging, at least."

After a shout of  _Protego!_  to ward off all the curses but the Unforgivable, which he dodged by jumping to a side, Harry concentrated his magic on the remnants of the Explosive Chain – his favourite spell when dealing with a powerful opponent strong enough to raise a Shield Charm.

As a decoy, Harry tossed a couple of Bone-breaking Curses and a Blinding Hex, which his opponent easily repelled.

Voldemort wanted to show how mighty he was by standing in one place without moving? Well, his undoing.

The man's shield was down now, because keeping up a Protego required a lot of magical force, and most wizards preferred to cast it only when there was imminent danger, which Harry certainly wasn't considered to be.

Harry chortled.

_I'll have to let out a bit more of my real power to crack through._

"I see no point to try harder when it's you who's failing all the challenges for now, My Lord."

The ashes at the Dark Lord's feet arose and formed the fireball-like shapes again, exploding near Voldemort's face. Harry heard a gasp, did a quick mental victory dance, and yelled, " _Stupefy! Crucio!"_

The Dark Lord screamed and fell to the floor in a heap of shivers and pitiful whimpers, and Harry felt nothing but disgust mixed with satisfaction coursing through him. He summoned his magic to envelop the man like a shroud and smother him, not giving him a chance to retaliate. Enforcing the Petrification Spell, he continued his onslaught of dark curses and hexes.

When he was ready to triumph, a dark chuckle reverberated across the walls and Harry whipped his head around only to find a grin full of teeth, and brown hair, and gleaming red eyes that were a window to a chaos of passion.

"Failing challenges, you say?" Voldemort's velvety baritone drawled, ending with a chuckle. "Foolish boy. Your addition to the traditional spell, I suppose? Not bad. However, you missed the fact that some curses enable wizards to exuviate like snakes, throwing away their old bodies to escape curses."

The odour of burnt flesh hit Harry's nostrils and he didn't have to sneak a glance behind him to envision smoke rising from the figure of the mock Dark Lord.

His alarm snapped into exhilaration.

None of the wand-waving twits at Hogwarts offered as much stimulation, demanded as much strain from him as that man.

"Are you depressed and lost in misery because your half-baked plan was thwarted, child?"

The Dark Lord stepped forward until he saw the smile slowly blossoming on Harry's lips.

"I'm happy," Harry found himself murmuring through a cloud of giddiness. "There's some spunk in your old bones, my Lord, which is more than I can say for half the population of your sect."

"You are so sure of yourself... You know, boy, from Greyback's memories I viewed, your father was just as sure before a claw went through his chest."

Rage. Burning, all-consuming rage.

_He dares! If he wants some hard play, hard play he'll get. Live to serve the Dark Lord, huh?_ Harry released almost everything from the self-imposed confines on his magic.

The Dark Lord continued, a smirk still playing across his lips, those goading eyes still gleaming red, as if he didn't see what his words were doing to Harry. Or maybe he did see and desired it. Harry didn't care. He wanted the menace  _gone_.

"Come to think of it, your mother was a proud woman, too. It seems to run in the blood. Do you know what she did before her death, Harry Potter? The wound she inflicted on the Wizarding World? Or do you keep the blinds on your eyes and refuse to see? Blaming my Death Eaters, blaming Bella, blaming  _me-_ "

Harry forced a smile to grace his face. His fingers twitched on his wand handle.

"I've never blamed you, my Lord." A lie. Just one of many. Harry would never get tired of telling them, as long as they were necessary. "But we're still in the middle of a duel, so you can't fault me for wishing to smash your face with curses, right?"

Without further ado, Harry attacked.

He gathered the magic shimmering beneath his skin and hurled it into the Dark Lord in an endless stream of sheer force that flooded his senses and swept through the training room like a purposeful tornado of sparkling colours – blues and blacks and purples and whites and reds. Harry hardly ever used his raw power even in training, so he struggled with directing it correctly, but his anger didn't let the magic slip from its goal: to hurt a certain person.

Harry relished in this wild force. Up to the moment when another, darker, more experienced and even more alluring power rose to the call of his adversary – and from then on, he was losing.

Harry gasped and stumbled back when foreign magic responded to his, and both blasts twined with each other. They bit and tore and strangled each other. An onslaught of magic-induced emotions swept him off his feet. Harry froze, conflicted. He couldn't fight back.

Raising his eyes to meet the Dark Lord's, he realised that the man was not angry with Harry for flinging the stream of all his power at Voldemort. On the contrary, the older wizard looked content and smug, as if he had proved something.

Eyes narrowed, Harry clutched his wand and prepared a few curses at the tip of it and on his lips. He threw one. The Dark Lord easily dodged it, and in a whirlwind of motion his target wasn't there anymore, but oppressive hands surrounded him and warm breath caressed the top of his head. The voice that spoke was husky and winded.

"A useful tip, dearest: never neglect muggle fitness and martial arts. They may be as deadly as the wizarding lore at times."

Harry calmed down, then smirked, stilling from his struggle in the Dark Lord's grasp.

"Who said I've neglected them?"

With those words, he summoned his strength into his fist, peppering it with some bits of magical power, and punched the smug face. Slipping out of the hold, Harry whirled around and grabbed strong shoulders to push the older wizard down to the floor.

Voldemort hissed as they tumbled down: a struggle of tugs and pulls and punches and kicks. Their wands, half-forgotten, lay inches away from the belligerent heap of bodies. Neither truly needed them, both using wandless magic to empower physical blows and transform small scrapes on each other into bloody gashes.

Harry laughed and laughed, never having felt such exalting pleasure.

In the midst of their struggle both stilled and locked their gazes. Both breathed heavily, their hair tousled and eyes half-lidded from the pleasurable pressure derived from the duel. Voldemort's hand cupped Harry's chin and drew blood from the extensive scratches on the teen's face, while the younger wizard's hands were fisting the front of the Dark Lord's sweat-and-blood-drenched shirt.

Bruises formed on the Dark Lord's face from his slaps and punches. Harry chuckled in excitement.

From his position atop the man, he noticed another kind of  _excitement_  growing in him.

Voldemort radiated it as well.

The Dark Lord smirked and clasped Harry's face tighter, leaning up to purr in his ear, to Harry's utmost mortification.

"You are full of surprises, dear. Does blood and pain spur you on? I can give you a  _world_  of it if you only say so..." Voldemort bit down on Harry's earlobe, extracting a gasp out of the youth. Harry felt blood trickle down his neck before the Dark Lord licked it off in a sensual swirl of tongue. Arousal churned in him.

Greater, however, was the rage.

"And you, my Lord, sorry to say, are dreadfully boring and predictable," Harry hissed and roughly tugged the man's hair back to shove the handsome face and sensuous tongue away.

Without wasting a heartbeat, Harry grabbed his wand and pushed himself to his feet, kicking off the man in the process. His eyes blazed green fire as he concentrated.

_The last bit of my power._

"You underestimate me, my Lord," Harry bit out. Everyone did. Life would show them that mistake.

While the Dark Lord gathered himself and his magic around him, grasping his wand, Harry closed his eyes and summoned what was left of his magic, which was, admittedly, not much: he had fed most of it to the earlier blast along with the Shield Charms and the Explosive Chain.

With his wand, Harry slashed through the air in a quick sequence of whirls. The spell was a lengthy one, and chances were he wouldn't be in time-

No matter. He had to  _try_.

The wand motions ended as the Dark Lord prepared to strike. Time to act, then.

" _Ignis Tempestas_!" Harry hollered with desperation gripping him. Fire spells were his specialty. No matter the level of his adversary, they always enabled him to win-

Not this time.

A puff of smoke spilt from the tip of his wand. The fume ignited and tore through the air around him with its blazing filaments, creating a circle of flames around Harry's casting form, protecting him but at the same time expanding outwards to devour the expanses of the duelling room, including Harry's opponent.

He couldn't see through the screen of smoke and fire. For a minute, all was still and silent, cheered up only by the quiet crackling of fire gladly eating the objects he had summoned to deflect Voldemort's curses.

This time, Harry didn't allow himself to hope it was over, but the duel had drained him so much he had no strength left even for a  _Protego_. Which proved to be his undoing.

In a single dramatic moment, the firestorm cleared, vanished into nothingness as if it had never existed, as if it were a burst of fire from a matchstick instead of a formidable spell. Coming face to face with the Dark Lord's menacing form, Harry backed away.

"You are a capable young man, Mr. Potter." Pale lips stretched into a smirk. Crimson eyes glinted. "But-" A hand thrown up into the air. "-not capable enough."

A blast threw Harry off his feet and flung him hard into the wall a distance away. When his back hit the surface, he heard a few bones crack. Deeper pain dug into him.

Knives. The bastard had stabbed him with bloody conjured  _knives_.

Harry groaned. Tried to lift his hand - useless. Exhaustion and wounds froze his movements. His punctured lung burnt.

"Too inexperienced. Too conceited. Too proud." The man's footsteps echoed all the way it took him to reach Harry and crouch in front of his immobile body. A smirk bloomed on the handsome face. "You have no chance. I am a Dark Lord, my dear. I have mastered the Dark Arts and they are but slaves to me now. If you have any hope of defeating me in a duel, you should reconsider your fallacious plans."

As he waved his wand to heal some of the damage inflicted on Harry - just wounds that could prove to be fatal if not treated immediately - he continued speaking.

"But you are willing to fight despite those odds. I have noticed it in the Pensieve memories of your duels. Even when you were a battered mass of blood and bones, you went on fighting and inventing tricks and pulling aces out of your sleeves... This is why I desire to further your potential. You are a great asset to me, Mr. Potter, and I am bestowing upon you a chance to scrub off the taint of the heritage you carry."

Voldemort traced Harry face with his finger: the temple, the cheek, drifting to the full lips. He pressed the grazes he had left, smeared the blood. Laughed when Harry winced.

"I'm honoured," Harry replied hollowly, grimacing when his tongue touched upon the man's finger.

"As you must be," Voldemort replied curtly, standing up. He offered no hand to help Harry get up, and he also didn't heal the bruises and knife gashes – just the punctured lung and broken bones.

The Dark Lord held up his hand to summon a rolled-up parchment, which he shoved into Harry. Now he went all business-like and brusque.

"The information you need is here. I await your presence in my study when the mission is complete." As soon as Harry balanced himself and could stand without grasping the air for support, Voldemort petted his hair with an almost affectionate hand. "I'll sculpt you into a masterpiece yet." His smile, wide, close-mouthed, was gleaming in the dim training-room light. "When I am through with your coarse talent, it will be a weapon of beauty and of power. For the Dark Side, of course. I expect us to see a lot of each other, Mr. Potter."

The Dark Lord parted from him. The impossible-to-mistake sensation of an apparition tore at Harry's navel.

His mind was reeling from the encounter.

It left him defeated. Sore. Yet...

Voldemort had revealed his more merciful side, demanded Harry's presence, and even duelled with him – an honour not bestowed even upon Lucius and the other higher tier 'Eaters.

Those privileges were a symbol and a token of what he could receive in his loyalty to the Dark Lord. Yet the happiness they inspired was stale and dead and fabricated. Harry understood at once wherein Lord Voldemort's mistake lied: the man assumed him to make part of the constant stream of cronies, wild and untamed but still craving his affection and attentions. Today, the Dark Lord had been securing Harry's position on the Dark side and had employed those tricks to lure him in.

He failed.

Harry's life path lay out in front of him as unchanging as ever. No courting would ever twist it.

_Well, if he is so ignorant and prune to mistakes... It is not my fault. You misstep, my dear Dark Lord, and it's your bad I'm too immoral a dancer to not take advantage of your failure._

For some reason, his magic was important to the Dark Lord, probably because of the possibilities its existence provided for the war effort against the Resistance.

Today, he had lost a battle. But he would win the war.

* * *

_September, 8th_

"Lucius, I want you to be an etiquette tutor for Harry Potter," Voldemort announced over a cup of tea, his eyes on one of the many battle plans littering his study.

He enjoyed the sight of Lucius sputtering and making a face as he attempted to 'reason' with his master. Voldemort suppressed a surge of irritation

"Excuse me, my Lord?" Lucius tentatively questioned. He set aside the report he had been reading out loud. His aristocratic eyebrow jumped into his hairline. "I must have heard ill. You said-"

"I am well aware of what I said," Voldemort replied coldly. His aura tightened around him. The malicious gleam in his eyes shut the pureblood up. Lucius swallowed. As he should. "You would do well not to question me in the future, Lucius, or you might find that your son doesn't need his hands as much as you think."

Lucius paled and bowed his head in submission.

Smugness and pleasure travelled through Voldemort.

Purebloods, the cream of the Wizarding World, the mainstay of its culture and traditions, the greatest supporters of the Dark...

They all grovelled at his feet, worshipful and admiring, some fearing him, some hating him, some loving him. And  _everyone_ respected him.

The world of his dreams since his childhood. The reality he lived in today.

"I apologise, my Lord, it's simply..." Lucius trailed off and took a deep breath, gathering whatever courage resided in his slippery soul. "Do you perhaps notice that you're giving too much leeway to that boy, Potter? The other day, when I offered to deal with him myself, you-"

"I? You misunderstand." A deep chuckle rang out in the room, and Voldemort smirked when Lucius mirrored it with his own in wariness. "The boy is of no consequence to me. But I would be cautious of Bella; she doesn't appreciate her toys broken by someone else."

"A toy? She loves the boy like she would her own son," Lucius said sharply before his face screwed up into a grimace. "It's not her fault she is a failure of a mother."

_I should pit them against each other soon, Potter and Bella. That boy mustn't stagnate. My challenges are going to be good for him. Or at least break him completely and make it easier for me to go through with my plans for him._

"Do what you must, Lucius. Potter must be educated in the matters of wizarding etiquette and politics," Voldemort issued a dismissive order. When the door behind Lucius closed softly, he settled into his armchair, put aside his cup of strong sugar-less tea, and thought.

He had never felt as elated.

Harry Potter.

The son of a mudblood and blood traitor, he was one of the most powerful children Voldemort had ever met – even in his infancy. Voldemort inspected all the children of high-ranking Death Eaters, to which category Lily and James had belonged, and he had encountered such oppressive power only in two children, one of whom had died soon.

Yet, after  _that_ incident he had ignored Potter completely. Until the whispers of his power and duelling prowess spread like flames. Voldemort had snatched Pensieve memories to watch and witness that strength. That grace and potential.

A pity the boy wouldn't get an opportunity to use that potential outside of Voldemort's schemes.

Then again...

He remembered luscious lips, velvety under his touch. Green eyes that smouldered and aroused. Polished graceful movements and the perky backside on his stomach- Hmm. He might enjoy the boy for a bit before carrying through with his plans.

The spark of pity was easy to drown: the man knew Potter had his own agenda, and that Greyback hadn't dropped dead because of old age or a sudden decease.

Lord Voldemort had no mercy for potential threats. No amount of beauty or potential usefulness could change his mind. He was a Dark Lord, not a mercy-granting fairy.

But a bit of games?

He never refused to play. That gift, he was willing to present to Potter before drenching the child in manipulations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your wonderful, wonderful reviews!


	6. No Man's Tool

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lookie-lookie what I'm resurrecting! (Yes, the fact that I'm updating it on this site means good things for the story in general). This chapter is kinda slow, but the next makes up for it I guess?
> 
> BUT Harry comforts a human being! This is, like, a personal breakthrough and triumph cooler than just defeating some Dark Lord.

_September, 10th._

Harry stared at Voldemort's parchment. Again. The lines came to life and mockingly rang in his mind.

Trust the bloody Dark Lord to be a pain in the arse even to the person he supposedly 'favoured'.

What ticked Harry off?

Six problems on his hands.

Problem one. Gregory Goyle.

Harry grimaced. Vast reserves of magic and a relentless, ruthless style – those traits characterised the boorish teen. He could even be useful... apart from the bit where he had no brain and trailed after Harry like a creepy love-sick puppy, sneering and jibing all the way. The guy also had next to none people skills, wielding his pureblood title with all the finesse of a whale-elephant hybrid.

Missions with socialising in them? Harry was one squad member short there.

Problem two. Draco Malfoy.

Hmm... Harry had a few uses for the chap's lordship. Harry's dislikes didn't blind him to usefulness. As a squad leader, Harry was Malfoy's superior in the Death Eater hierarchy and thus could demand certain things... in addition to the debt the pureblood forged in exchange for Harry's protection.

The older Slytherin was fairly good in a fight – their mock wall-on-wall battles and duels under Crouch's watchful eye proved it. Malfoy possessed neither Goyle's sheer quantity of magic, nor Harry's inventiveness and imaginative use of spells but he was  _underhanded_ _._  He cast tripping hexes and summoned knives for his enemy to fall onto. Levitated odd objects. Used explosive potions, summoned intestines through the skin.

At the same time, Malfoy's vain ways irked him. The bloke was more likely to strike a ridiculously swoon-worthy pose and toss high words proving his superiority rather than swiftly dispose of his adversary. Besides, what if the blond's meticulously gelled hair got dishevelled?

Ah, the horror. He would probably withdraw from the battle for good.

Problem three. Hermione Granger.

Granted, she herself wasn't much of a problem. Harry sweet-talked her once again to ascertain their lessons. She had looked like Yule come early, and the realisation hammered home: the Light side had notified her of his potential 'change' of affiliations.

Her calculative eyes often sliced through him to discern his intentions. Unyielding, demanding explanation, perceptive, they followed him in the library and in the corridors, in the Great Hall and in class, on Hogwarts grounds and on Hogsmeade trips...

_I must teach some tricks on how to stay hidden to the dear girl. Her attempts at stalking are as transparent as Pansy Parkinson's informal sexy robes._

Let her see. Let her see and report. The way other students, Slytherins especially, ostracised him (admittedly less now, but the feeling still hung in the air), the way Wizarding Studies professor Araminta Meliflua scrunched her nose as if smelling rotten muggle corpses at the sight of him, the way some staff members put him down repeatedly in their classrooms...

Harry didn't mind the treatment anymore. Found pluses in it. Granger, on the other hand...

Well, Harry loathed pity when it implied weakness and was directed at the  _real_  him, but when his public persona inspired it, the pride was silent and stifled. It hadn't always been like this. There had been a time when every little thing could make him blow up, but practice worked wonders.

Problem four. Thorfinn Rowle.

Their instructor. His role was to guide junior Death Eaters into the acceptance of killing and extremist attitude towards all things Light and muggle.

Harry scoffed. From the rumours, Thorfinn Rowle had neither the patience nor enthusiasm to babysit a group of Hogwarts students. Now, he was doing it because of a lost bet... or something equally mundane and ridiculous. Something Harry himself would have never allowed to happen.

Still, the man was good. Powerful, brutal in fight, but not without a smidgen of brains. Harry had to pull some strings to dig up personal info. The next week he would get it all, once Zacharias dealt with whatever haunted him these days.

The choice of the instructor was important.

Harry would have to work with the man for a long time, and although arranging an assassination – maybe he could even carry it out himself – was not out of the question, Harry preferred less drastic measures.

But the callous options never left his mind for a second.

Problem five. Harry's last minion. Susan Bones.

Nothing special, neither in physical appearance nor in smarts,  _but_...

She was the niece of the presumed-missing Amelia Bones, who Harry didn't doubt enjoyed her stay at the Resistance quarters, and the daughter of newly proclaimed traitors to the Dark Lord.

Charming, no?

Which wonderfully led to the most pressing problem he faced, namely: the mission.

_Destroy the Bones family, all bar Susan Bones. The house must_ _be searched_ _thoroughly_ _before being burnt down. No hostages_ _are allowed_ _. The consequences of defying the Dark Lord must_ _be shown_ _._

Of course, Susan Bones herself was not allowed to slack off and close her eyes on the deaths of her father and mother. She must be  _present_. Moreover, she must actively participate, because if not, Rowle would report her inaction to the Dark Lord, and that would earn the girl a round of interrogation with Evan Rosier. Harry knew intimately well that days in the cell with that inhumane creature looming somewhere nearby was not all tea and crumpets.

He felt... a kinship of a kind. To a girl he didn't know.

Harry abruptly rose from his seat and resolved to get things done instead of sulking all day long. Brooding didn't excuse idleness. He had a myriad of matters to take care of – might as well sort them out.

And as he walked through the intricate pattern of Hogwarts hallways and hidden passageways, as he passed gossiping portraits and immobile armours, the fuss in his mind settled. All thoughts and ideas disentangled with every breath he took, lying plain for him to see and sort through. The process only quickened its pace as he ambled out of the castle and took a trip to the lake that placidly shimmered under the sun.

Harry was arrogant. He was prune to lose control when his parents were mentioned or the memory of them sullied (which was the same thing nowadays). He was bad with alcohol. He hated losing. He got infuriated easily.

And yet, for all those quirks and foibles, when he regained control over his life and the ability to pull the strings himself, when he calmed down and took a moment to think and scheme and calculate...

They never saw him coming.

Walking up to the edges of the Great Lake, Harry waved his wand to conjure a quilt. He dropped onto it a second later. Stretching out under the hot sunrays, he grinned to welcome the warmth.

People usually took him for a cold-loving person. Harry hated cold. Ever since his life in the forever-chilly Lestrange Manor began.

On that unusually hot day he wasn't the only one to get the clever idea of nestling outside the castle, but in Harry's remote nook their shouts and laughter rang out as mere shadows of noisy bubbling sounds.

Once again, he concentrated on his plans.

Susan Bones had yet to drink from that cup of watching loved ones die. Harry didn't care. He had tasted pain and was numb to it now, be it was his own or someone else's. Compassion gnawed at him, yes. But it was a gentle nip, not a seizing bite that tore through the shields of impassivity he erected.

The main issue lay in the Order.

More exactly, how his actions the Resistance would perceive his actions. The wouldn't close their eyes if he killed two of their own, right?

If they found out – and with both Granger and Bones there, Harry didn't doubt it for a moment – no matter how much Death Eaters and Slytherins hated him, it wouldn't be enough to erase the stigma. They wouldn't accept him into their fold. He would never regain their trust. Even if he got in, they would never disclose the secrets that mattered .

Harry clenched his teeth, his darkening expression scaring away a bird nearby.

He couldn't afford that. For all his self-assurance, Harry was aware he would never be able to destroy the Dark Lord  _and_ survive the aftermath all on his own. He needed someone to fall back onto, someone to provide him with tools if his plans miscarried. The Resistance was the most obvious - the only - choice. Especially considering the growth in influence and competence it experienced in recent years.

Thus, Harry couldn't afford carrying out the orders, and he couldn't afford  _not_ carrying out the orders.

Go figure.

Harry willed his body to relax. The lines on his forehead smoothed out, his ears drowned out the already faint noises, and he forced out a tiny bit of his magical aura to crack through and scare away the wizards he wasn't in the mood to mingle with. He didn't notice how his eyes closed.

He imagined all the matters he had to solve as puzzle pieces, and all the pieces of information he had, all the means at hand, as the glue which held them together. His mind worked, quickly, efficiently. It sought out the loopholes and ways to realise his plans without any losses. Only gains.

The puzzle pieces clicked into place.

_I wonder, my Lord..._ A thought sneaked past the pleasant haze of contentment.  _Is it the same for you?_ _We are both geniuses, you and I, although you_ _undoubtedly_ _have had more experience and opportunities to apply it_ _. You, for all your megalomania, are the person_ _I feel_ _most kinship with amongst this crowd._ _I wonder_ _if you feel this way too – exhilarant, self-assured, proud of yourself, when you work out your own dilemmas_ _. I know that others don't feel that way. And_ _I wonder_ _if you do._

...How did this question even get in his head? Ah, he must certainly be more tired than he imagined.

After that disastrous, embarrassing duel, the impressions of Voldemort haunted him too much to be normal or healthy. The magic. The power. The delicious  _danger_  and the attention concentrated on him-

Harry needed a vacation. Surely, it was stress talking; no other way for his thoughts towards the Dark Lord to be so placid.

* * *

The Room of Requirement was a wonderful place. Harry's thoughts could mould it in any form he liked, and his gait was always stealthy whenever he moved past tapestries and portraits and students. No one but him used the well of opportunity the room presented.

The best thing was that the magic performed in the Room didn't leave a trace in the castle's wards. The Headmaster couldn't read his signature, couldn't find out which spells Harry mastered or invented there. Couldn't even tell which potions he brewed. The place provided absolute protection from this type of spying. As secure as dragon caves it was.

Harry would be a fool to not use it.

"Done," he murmured to himself gleefully, standing up from his kneeling position. His sharp green eyes checked every rune, every symbol, every Arithmantic combination drawn on the floor.

He chose a simple design for the Room today; everything else was bound to be a distraction. Every distraction meant the loss of his life – and while Harry acknowledged the devastating truth that it probably wouldn't matter much to anyone, he loved his life and didn't wish to diminish its length.

The walls were bare, the furniture was limited to a plain oak table on the far side. It held an athame, a book opened at the page he needed, his school bag, and the parchment with his notes.

The circles on the floor were perfect: all clear, sharp lines carved into stone, and bordered with tiny runes and numbers. It created a web-like picture on the stony surface. Harry surveyed his masterpiece with an entranced stare.

He couldn't wait to admire the ritualistic drawings when he poured his magic into them. When he made them shine and glitter like the sconces on the walls.

His expression morphed into one of disappointment. A wry grimace. Harry doubted he would be able to appreciate the bewitching picture through the agony of having his Occlumency shields torn open, admitting entrance to the magic of the ritual, and then having his mind re-organise itself. All brutally painful, of course. And it took a very long time.

Harry dug his fingernails into the tender skin of his palms. He despised himself for that slip, for falling into the clutches of the fear of pain.

He was no stranger to hurt. Yet sometimes the promise of it hovered over him like a cloud of anxiety.

He  _needed_  the ritual. He tolerated Bella's curses, and Malfoy's, and Rosier's, so surely the rite of temporary acquisition of Legilimency couldn't hurt more than their spells had?

Harry tucked his hair behind his ears, inhaled, and chanted. His words echoed off the bare walls, returning to him amplified in volume and in quantity, his voice powerful and ringing and loud. Harry wasn't good at singing, but at the moment the magic of the ritual guided him, not his own clumsy attempts to hum a song.

Not for the first time he appreciated his magical power not only for its benefit, but for the sheer beauty of that ancient force.

The magic poured into the runes, the circles. It filled every nook and cranny of the carvings. They glowed on the grey stones. Harry's own voice, still amplified by the empty room, reverberated in a crescendo of obscure spells.

Magic. It danced in the air and pulled him in to join the controlled madness of the moment.

Harry didn't need the book anymore; his power guided him.

It guided him even when the sudden spike of agony drove out the elation.

It guided him when a broken gasp interrupted his chant. When the world in front of his eyes tilted and erupted into a foxtrot of motley smudges.

The ritual was tearing apart his mental shields. Harry gritted his teeth, forcing on a smile and forcing out a laugh, like his mother had taught him.

He coaxed himself into understanding the purpose of it all. Reminded his weeping mind of the threat the Dark Lord presented, of his own pathetic inability to win, of his parents' deaths, of his goal. He dug up everything to divert his attention from the invisible claws that scrabbled and tore through his mental safeguards with enviable sadism.

He didn't care that mad laughter broke through the ritual chant. He didn't care that the magic swirling around him in the elegant motions of waltz had the potency to blow up half the school. He didn't care that it was a miracle the Headmaster hadn't come barging in with an investigation squad because of all that force.

He concentrated on his memories and thoughts.

The pain lessened. The ritual was successful. It brought Harry one step closer to overthrowing the Dark Lord.

As he dropped to his knees, clutching his forehead, he couldn't stop a mad grin breaking out on his handsome face, just as he couldn't stop the tendrils of powerful Legillimency that now emanated from his body.

* * *

_September, 12th._

"There's something different about you, Potter," Zacharias muttered with a frown by way of greeting. "You look a tad... constipated?"

_That's because I can now hear every thought you and all the inhabitants of the castle have at the moment._

Harry smiled sweetly. Acquiring a temporary talent didn't mean controlling it. He would keep that in mind for the next time the idea to conduct a tricky Dark ritual hit him.

"Dear Zach, don't open your mouth unless you want me to stuff your intestines in it." Harry ignored the disgusted flinch from his friend. "I'm armed and  _very_ annoyed."

Alas, for now he was stuck with the need to sort out the thoughts he wanted to hear, needed to hear, and  _never_  wanted to hear. He hadn't been doing much progress thus far.

Foreign minds spread out before him without his volition. While at first it he had snickered at the hidden desires of some brain-dead fools, it had got old fast. The main reason lay in the way Harry had acquired the ability: he had forced it into him through the ritual instead of naturally transitioning from Occlumency to Legilimency. Now he reaped the consequences. Oh, and had to make a sacrifice in ten days.

If only he had more time...

_Well, no use crying over spilt milk,_ Harry told himself firmly.

"Believe me, Potter, your annoyance is not that hard to miss," Zacharias deadpanned and pulled out a chair to drop on it immediately. The chair loudly scratched the wooden floor.

A few students hissed at them or threw dirty looks for daring to disrupt the sanctity of the Hogwarts library, but neither of the teens paid any mind. Harry stuck his nose in a dog-eared tome.

"Potter. I see you with a book."

"Yeah, I gather that."

"No, I mean, it's not homework. You are- what? Actually reading for pleasure?"

"Not for pleasure but out of necessity." Harry sighed in exasperation and annoyance. "Duelling, Smith. I have to keep my status as the best dueller, and it'd be sort of impossible to do without reading up on spells and techniques. At least occasionally."

Well, battle spells weren't research papers; reading up on practical curses and hexes and jinxes didn't blow up Harry's cover. He wanted to look simply academically disinclined, not a dolt.

Zacharias shot him a what-the-hell sort of look before it changed to the ordinary pureblood nonchalance. Legilimency, though, allowed Harry to sneak a peek at the confusion spinning under the dirty-blonde hay of hair.

"I've always taken you more for a hands-on kind of guy," Zacharias explained in a matter-of-fact tone with a shrug and a disconcerted expression distorting his face. "You always pick up spells quickly- Well, when you need to blow up some poor chap's brains in his head. You can't cast a Levitation Charm if your life depended on it. Your range of talents is rather limited."

"At least I have  _a_ range.  _You_  cannot boast of the same thing." Harry's lips stretched into a smirk and he tapped his cheek. "Besides, it's just my luck to have such strong duelling abilities. If not for them, the Dark Lord would have wiped the floor with me the other day-"

_And he still did, but..._

Zacharias sucked in a breath and interrupted Harry's smooth flow of speech.

"You actually saw him? Duelled with him?" His eyes were alight with excitement and he bounced up and down in his seat before regaining control of himself. He coughed in his fist with all the reserve and haughtiness of a pureblood noble and continued, delight lacing his voice, "Potter, I don't know whether I am impressed with you or concerned."

"Concerned?" Harry threw his head back with a snort and surveyed the other through half-hooded eyes.

Zacharias sneered before his eyes gleamed and his lips quirked in a fox-like grin.

"You are the best source of Slytherin gossip I have, Potter. I hope you remember our deals and what you get out of them."

"What we  _both_  get out of them," Harry corrected the teen sharply. His merit was his. No one had the right to claim it. "Stop treating yourself like some bloody altruist all the time, Smith. You're as charitable as Malfoy is brave. Our... relationship provides a lot of benefit for us both, and don't you dare minimise what  _you_ gain out of me or the role the information I provide plays in your shady dealings with the Slytherin part of the school."

Paling, Zacharias could only mutter his apology. He resisted Harry's glowers; he scrammed before the green arctic gaze.

Harry read disgruntlement, mild anger, and stubbornness. With a derisive snort he shrugged and returned to his text. He had more important things to do than soothe a boy's wounded pride. The silence hung.

"What was he like?" Zacharias suddenly pierced through the stillness between them. At Harry's arch of elegant eyebrow he elaborated, "The Dark Lord. I know I've asked this of you already, but now you have some new impressions of him."

"This question doesn't come for free."

Harry pulled his lips apart to reveal his teeth. Strike. Just the offer he had been waiting for to clinch his manipulation.

Zacharias bristled and clenched his fist, but didn't dare grab Harry's collar or do something equally idiotic. For all his derisive remarks regarding Harry's intelligence and knowledge of general spellwork, he feared Harry in a battle, and for Harry all the situations in which manhandling was involved were a battle.

Harry nodded with satisfaction when Zacharias reigned in his temper, exhaling.

"The price?"

The sweet smile from earlier found its way back onto Harry's face. It suited him less than the shark-like grin or smirk he sometimes flaunted.

"Nothing over the top. Just a batch of a potion I want and which you  _will_  provide to me." Not a note of doubt entered his calm tone. Only a tinge of glee coloured the remark.

"You're so full of yourself!" Zacharias hissed. Harry cocked his head at the pathetic loss of temper. From the corner of his eye he spied Granger flickering a concerned glance at their pair. Although the silencing wards he had placed earlier didn't allow a sound out, the expression of anger on Zacharias's face was unmistakeable.

Oh, so the little miss know-it-all was there too? Swell.

Zacharias Smith didn't have the best of reputations amongst the Resistance. There were some fishy plans drifting about him that even Harry didn't delve in, and while Zacharias hadn't committed any truly cruel, inhumane acts, for the Light side the fact that he gambled, blackmailed, bribed, and forged was enough to condemn him.

Their closeness might someday cast shadows on Harry's own secret reputation in the Order ranks. If Granger chirped to the Lighties that they had a rift, it would only be advantageous.

Harry returned his attention to the spluttering Zacharias.

"-I can't believe it! You are almost failing half your grades, most notably Transfiguration, you are a troublemaker, you managed to get Crucioed on your first meeting with the Dark Lord- and you have the gall to  _demand_  things of me with all the certainty of an impending Avada! I don't know what went wrong with your brain, Potter, maybe Lestrange cursed you to the head one time too much-"

"Are you done?" Harry asked serenely. He flicked a page. Living with the Lestranges acquainted him with the ability to keep calm while some other person raved. Practice made him perfect at it. "Now, hear what I have to say."

Harry enforced his voice with a touch of magic as he leaned over the table to grasp Zacharias's chin and whisper close to his mouth.

"If you behave and do as told, I will share bits of my memory of him with you. The impressions of the Dark Lord himself, Zacharias. His power, his cunning, his aura- You will feel it as I felt, and understand as I understood."

Through the newly acquired Legilimency, the reflection of his own eyes travelled back to Harry along with Zacharias's own perceptions of it.  _Seductive. Enchanting. Mesmerising._

Harry stifled a smirk at the emotions he inspired. His magic inspired, to be more correct.

Harry pulled away from the sandy-haired teen and beamed at him, chirping, "Don't you believe I deserve some mashed bits and pieces of dead animals and plants for this?"

_Not that I will share everything, of course._ _Just_ _enough to blind you with your trust in me further. We are_ friends _after all, aren't we?_

Zacharias's skin shone with paleness. His pupils dilated. Oops. Maybe Harry had overdone the magic he had pushed into his voice: that skill he had acquired only that summer. He would master it shortly. But not now.

"I'm sorry, Harry, for blowing up on you like this," Zacharias said softly.

Harry inclined his head with a hum; here came the person he was used to deal with, not that short-tempered nitwit with his emotions on the sleeve.

"I- I am just going through a difficult period- Well, not I, but a relative of mine, so I've been almost a hermit for a week now, all cooped up in the dorms or in the far corner of the library. I was afraid the stress would catch up with me and I would do something I regret-" Zach's lips twitched wryly. "-And lo and behold, it happens."

Harry shifted in his seat. Was Zacharias expecting him to... sympathise? Comfort him? Tell sweet nothings?

_Morgana, I'll grey_ _prematurely_ _with this sort of obstacles. Do I... urgh... Hug him? Convince him that life's good and all that?_

Eventually, Harry reached with the tendrils of Legilimency lazed about him, ready to come at his call, and followed Zacharias's desires: stretched his hand to pat the other teen's arm in a comforting way.

He said with as much empathy as he could muster, "You know that I'm your friend, Zach. Although I can never be as cunning as you-"  _Because I far surpass your level._ "-I have my wand and some bloody strong magic. And a vengeful streak that outstretches to my friends, too. If you want to gut a bastard with a barrage of nasty curses, I'm up for the challenge."

Harry hoped that was comforting enough. Legilimency told him so.

And he found that using his temporary force like this, for menial tasks that required concentration on a single person, allowed him some respite from the rest of the students in the library. He directed all the tendrils on Zacharias, and the others' thoughts faded.

Zacharias threw the invading hand a lost look before relaxing and snorting with a sneer – how both expressions coexisted Harry had no idea.

"Well, that's typical you, Potter: all brawn and no brain. And, no, thanks, it is not the kind of problem you solve with brute force- But we were talking about a deal between us." Blue eyes sharpened as the teen paused. "I don't have a Pensieve here at Hogwarts, so your part of deal will have to wait. But my grandmother is planning on sending me a package tomorrow, so if you tell me what you want now, I'll send her a letter this evening. Tomorrow you will probably have your potion."

Harry nodded briskly.

"So... What is it you want, Potter?" Suspicion lurked under the gloss of amiability.

Harry smirked, and Zacharias shivered. It was a dark smirk, Harry knew. Most of his expressions usually were.

"Polyjuice." The word spilt out of his lips easily. He laughed at Zacharias's stricken expression.

_Wary, frightened, alarmed... You have the right to be all those things, Zach. But fear not: my plan doesn't concern you. In fact, you will never even catch whiff of the trick I'll pull._

"I don't want to know what you are going to do with it," Zacharias said simply. Harry shrugged.

"Neither of us sticks his nose in the other's business. That's part of the contract between us, correct? You keep your shady manipulations, and I keep my petty quarrels."

Silence reigned again.

Harry was deep in thought. He had tried force with Voldemort, foolishly deeming his dictionary of spells enough for the deed. He had allowed himself to grow arrogant during the duel, allowed himself to be swept by the dance and song of their twining auras, allowed himself to grow entranced,  _aroused_  – he grimaced – by the Dark Lord's thrall.

The man had admitted it himself: Voldemort was the  _Master_ of Dark Arts. They bent to his orders. They razed resistance. He controlled every last filament of Dark magic.

Harry would never compare. The certainty was like a guillotine: impending, dreadful, but also, in a way, freeing.

It opened his eyes to the meaning of the title of the Dark Lord. The realisation pushed him to seek other methods to destroy the man.

Not only magic-wise, but in demeanour, too. Trickery was the way to go now, and Harry needed to polish his skills. What better opportunity than the challenge of saving an Order member right under the nose of Death Eaters?

Harry wanted to laugh.

Eventually, Zacharias pulled out his notes and started on his homework. Harry flipped through his own book.

Zacharias didn't notice that Harry never allowed him to catch a glimpse of the title. But there it was, carved in golden letters, shining just like the sort of magic the book guarded was supposed to shine:  _Olde Light Magicks_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To clarify for the future: the Resistance and the Order aren't necessarily the same thing. The Order is the leading organisation of the Resistance, but there are smaller groups and families that fight with the Dark Lord's forces on their own.
> 
> Thank you so much for your support!


	7. Are You the King?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! A huge thanks for your reviews!
> 
> I think that this chapter is one of my favourites in the entire story. Hope you share this opinion :D
> 
> Read and enjoy!

Harry's dreams were a scary world of broken memories. Of pain and sadness.

Darkness never granted him the relief of soothing shadows. Instead, like bluish corpses, recollections dragged themselves up to the surface of his mind, tearing him away from peaceful blackness.

Sometimes, his dreams flashed imaginary possibilities, things that never happened but hurt to think about. Harry's dead parents who haunted him and, gurgling blood, reproved his slowness.

Why was it taking him so long to avenge them?

Why did he follow Voldemort's rules? Studying Dark Magic, accepting the Dark Mark, not fighting harder to get to the Light...

Was he turning out to be a Dark wizard?

Did he not love the memory of them enough to fully support the Light Side, not only in its opposition to the Dark Lord, but in its ideals and priorities? Did he not love the memory of them enough to hate the Dark Lord not because of their own deaths but simply because of his title and what it entailed?

Those dreams... they were pieces of possible reality.

So, when Harry closed his eyes that night, he didn't expect anything to differ from the usual routine.

It did.

He blinked. An invisible hand wiped off the sluggishness that came with sleep.

The study was as luxurious as it had been the last time he had visited it: the sturdy furniture that reflected the strength of its owner, the lined stacks of books and parchment crowding the desk and the shelves, the carpets and comfy armchairs...

Harry's gaze drifted across all those items and pulled to a complete stop when it clashed with amused crimson orbs.

"Good evening, dear," His bloody Majesty Dark Lord Voldemort greeted.

Harry simply stared. Wasn't he supposed to control his dreamscape?

When the surrealistic situation didn't change, a nagging feeling hit him: it wasn't his imagination. Harry drew up to his full height, schooled his features into respect, and allowed the Dark Lord's magnificent presence to envelop him.

He grit his teeth inwardly. He was still sore after his defeat. How humiliating.

"Good evening, my Lord," Harry finally replied, keeping his voice even and smooth. He swept the room with a glance again, this time for show. "I daresay it is a rather... unusual method of summoning a follower."

_And unpleasant. Why, when you_ _just_ _want to have a shut-eye, you get a Dark Lord jumping at you out of the blue instead?_

Voldemort simply quirked an eyebrow in response before drawing closer. Harry refused to stagger back, rejected the notion of keeping his eyes away – Occlumency protected his mind anyway.

The man's footfalls resounded like a quiet drum in the soft silence of his office. When Voldemort clapped his hand on Harry's shoulder, Harry endured the touch. Acted all flattered and awed.

"Do you know how many opportunities dreams present?" Voldemort asked Harry, leaning in to eye the younger wizard. His claret eyes gleamed. Their shadows intertwined on the dimly-lit walls.

Harry replied through the lump in his throat, "Opportunities for communication? For spying the most sacred and coveted desires, which run unhinged in a person's dreamscape?"

Voldemort's lips twisted. Burning crimson sparkled with malevolent amusement.

"If you believe I seek hidden desires, I find myself astounded and alarmed that you would see me as part of them."

Harry's respectful smile sweetened the irritation that smouldered his insides. The arrogance of the man-!

"Hard to lie and say that I've never considered going out of my way to impress you, my Lord," Harry attempted. He timed his bow so that he forced Voldemort to retreat his hand lest Harry's bobbing head hit him. Unfortunately, the Dark Lord didn't move away. "To hold your regard, your respect... I'd say these are my major aspirations in this life. The ambitions that everybody under your rule shares."

Harry closed his eyes. A train of throaty chuckles responded him.

"My, my, laying it thick tonight, child?"

Harry could use a hundred and a half excuses, dozens of way to prove his mock-sincerity and divert possible accusations...

He stayed silent. The dream, or reality that felt like one – he couldn't be too sure – clouded his judgement. Nothing made sense: not how he appeared in the Dark Lord's study, not why, not what for. He wondered why that wasn't freaking him out more, like it should... He blamed the dream's haze for that.

Calmly, all his movements measured and soaked with incongruous laze, Voldemort strolled to the coffee table. A bowl of fruit perched upon it. Harry ogled the man as he bent over to tear a bunch of grapes from the cluster. Thin fingers lovingly caressed each berry before he scrutinised them and picked out one, popping it into his mouth. As he turned to face Harry, his tongue flickered out to lick the corner of his mouth.

Without moving from his spot, he held out his hand to Harry.

"Taste it," Voldemort ordered imperiously. He stood unmoving like a statue, cold and waiting. Harry stared at the offered limb. The wine-coloured grapes adorned the hand with their attractive round shapes. Delightful succulence and rich shade promised an even richer flavour. Shadows blackened the colour.

Hesitation lacing his motions, Harry complied with the demand – how could he not?

Even if his mother had taught him not to accept food from maniacs. Or Dark Lords. Same thing, really.

Harry advanced forward with intentionally slow steps. The carpet muffled his footsteps as he pulled to a stop a mere foot away from the imposing wizard.

Harry pulled out a single grape with two fingertips and brought it to his mouth, biting into it. Juice flowed into his mouth. Not overly sweet, mostly acidic. His Adam's apple bobbed when he gulped it down.

Voldemort's eyes never left his face, traced his every action and every change in mimicry. Lingered on his exposed throat.

"It was delicious, my Lord," Harry filled the strained silence . Voldemort raised an eyebrow in reply.

"After seeing you suck on that grape in that hungry way..." A mocking smirk flashed on Voldemort's face. "Another one, perhaps?"

Harry's knuckles whitened, even as hidden as they were by the fabric of his school robe - the dream went through the trouble of dressing him up. Good. Imagine turning up in his nightgown!

"Thank you, my Lord, but I believe I've imposed on your hospitality too much already," Harry probed. He was risking with his refusal, but it could be taken as a candid display of shyness and reluctance to bother his Lord. "Maybe some other time-"

"I am not in the habit of making offers twice, child," Voldemort interrupted him. His tone lowered dangerously.

His bone-white spidery fingers cut through the air in a quick motion as he tossed the grapes into the bowl. None missed. A couple of them burst and layered the other fruit in a thinnest veneer of juice.

"-And sometimes I am not in the habit of making offers at all," the Dark Lord finished, watching Harry with that trademark unwavering gaze that flustered him. Like a predator stalking its prey.

The man was testing him, Harry realised. But testing for what? How could Harry intentionally pass or fail when he didn't have an inkling what the crimson eyes searched for in his own?

Voldemort moved to his own desk. He leaned back, almost sitting on the edge of it and facing Harry. His face frightened Harry with the extent of its impassivity: no emotion bled through, nothing passionate in a good or bad way. No amusement betrayed. A sheet of nothingness.

"Why did you summon me, my Lord?" Harry prodded when Voldemort proved himself fully capable of complete stillness and complete silence.

Any sort of attention unnerved Harry.

Every time people stared at him, every time they gauged him or pierced him with calculating gazes, Harry secretly trembled. What if the stares reached too far and too deep? What if they saw things they had no business seeing and discovered bits of him Harry had buried long ago?

Harry wouldn't allow anyone to look too deep into him, to Voldemort especially. He had to break the silence. With it, the gauging would break, too.

"Don't get cheeky with me, my dear," Voldemort chided Harry's question. "I dislike my servants speaking out of turn. And you will soon find that you don't want me to dislike you or your actions."

"I'm sorry." Harry bowed. A jerky motion. Another proof that the lack of rest got to him and smothered the efficiency of his gestures. He hoped that the Dark Lord tossed it aside as unimportant – after all, who was Harry Potter in the larger scope of things? "Still, I don't think you make it a habit to interrupt your followers' sleep with a chat and a food offer." Harry narrowed his eyes slyly. "Not least because it must be a complicated spell to share a dreamscape with another wizard, especially through distance-"

Voldemort interrupted Harry's careful prodding for information.

"My Dark Mark eases the process greatly." When the Dark Lord noticed the widening of horrified green eyes, the cruelty in his voice rose a few notches. Teeth flashed. "Yes, it carries out many functions. The whole purpose of the Mark is to secure the loyalty and availability of my followers. What use can they be to me when I cannot reach them even through the mantle of sleep?"

The man's smirk was splitting his face in two. Harry stood numbly, unable to comprehend how he had allowed that vilest thing to mark his skin. If he had known that it did not only brand him like cattle, but also treated him like that, he-

"I want you to have etiquette lessons," Voldemort disrupted Harry's frantic train of thought. He wasn't grinning anymore but that smug gleam still raged in his crimson eyes.

Disappointed in himself at his numerous lapses, because sleep was not an excuse, Harry struggled to regain a semblance of control over himself.

"I had them when I was younger," Harry informed the Dark Lord stiffly.

Etiquette lessons? Harry browsed his mind for any possible reason Voldemort would want him to have them. It came up empty. Unless-

Harry's eyes narrowed. If it was heading where he thought it was...

Life suddenly brightened.

Harry remembered a vague remark carelessly flipped by Parkinson about a Ministry ball thrown a few weeks from then. Although the Ministry functioned mostly in name only, what's with the Dark Lord around, those gatherings still presented an opportunity to acquaint oneself with the cream of society. Squad leaders were usually invited.

If Harry played that right, he would prove himself both to the Dark Lord and to the man's followers, shedding the grease of his parentage a tad more, thus securing himself a position closer to Voldemort, which would offer him more opportunities to discover the older wizard's weaknesses and exploit them. And, of course, there would be the Order's spies, too – nevermind that he would become a "spy" for the Order himself.

"You realise, of course, that as things stand now, you will be making a laughing stock out of yourself if I let you out into the proper pureblood world unhinged?" Voldemort drawled and stretched his hand to grasp Harry's chin, turning it to the side as the man critically observed and made mental notes to himself.

Pale fingers dug into the skin. Harry never broke eye-contact, even when they drew blood. Even when the wizard's every subsequent word carved into him unmercifully.

"Bold, cheeky, ignorant, boorish... Your only point of merit is your duelling capacity and the rare shred of intelligence and leadership skills that does shine through," Voldemort spoke his verdict, releasing Harry's chin with a sneer, as if throwing it away.

Harry wanted to shout that it was his mask of an ideal Gryffindor in Slytherin robes that prevented him from utilising those etiquette lessons that had been pounded into him.

He restrained himself.

Control. It was always about control and what came out on top: the higher purpose or the immediate whims and caprices.

The memories of his parents spurned the control on to win.

"Why choose me at all, then, my Lord?" Harry asked with a faux quivering tone that implied Harry's agreement with the characteristics. "Ah, not that I don't welcome it, of course, because I really, really do, but-"

Voldemort slapped his mouth. A hush snapped into place again.

Harry bit the inside of his cheek, inwardly seething. Their eyes clashed, challenging claret against furious viridescent. The prolonged shadows fought their dance again.

"You are rambling," the Dark Lord hissed, his mood suddenly changing as if hitting a switch. "I have no patience for bumbling fools with speech impediments. This Ministry gathering is special. We expect French ambassadors."

Harry chucked the offense aside in favour of blinking and re-thinking his plans for the ball.

Fabulous. Better and better.

France had cut off all the relations with the UK as soon as the Dark Lord claimed himself to be the new ruler of the country. The French, as a Light-dominated nation, couldn't stain themselves with such Dark associates, thus the borders had been staunchly guarded and the communication between the countries forbidden...

Until now.

Harry wouldn't be able to stay in the country once he offed Voldemort. Most of Europe remained Light-oriented, many of the Dark countries ideological opponents to the Dark Lord despite their magical orientation, but not one dared oppose the man. Needless to say, Harry need not underestimate the power of fear Voldemort inspired.

France, however, never concealed its true colours and its opposition. The Beauxbatons Headmistress in particular never minced her words when she expressed her opinions on the Dark Lord.

Energised by that tidbit of information, Harry put on an apologetic, compliant expression.

"So, I have to be on best behaviour, my Lord?" Harry batted his eyelashes innocently.

Voldemort waved him off, pulling away completely. "Lucius will explain what that entails. Remember that you represent my country, which in turn represents me. Every action you dish out will be judged, and-" Dark magic rose in a starting storm around the man. Harry shivered. "-Salazar help you if it will be judged unfavourably."

Harry nodded sharply in agreement with the Dark Lord's words.

"Of course. What about my studies? Do I get to skip? Or is it a no fun arrangement for everyone except Uncle Lucy with his craving to satisfy his daily bouts of sadism?" Harry tilted his head to emphasise his statement.

Voldemort's lips quirked upwards. Good. Harry would hate to leave the man angry.

"I promise it will be  _very_  fun for you, child," the Dark Lord swore darkly. He rose from the edge of his desk and, this time without touching him, sought out Harry cheek to whisper into it in a tone that raised hackles and forced goosebumps onto Harry's skin. "You will get to have conversations with me. Every weekend. Delighted, are you?"

He drew back to watch the change in Harry's expression with coy half-hooded eyes and a conceited upturn of lips.

Harry fought to push a flattered expression onto his face instead of a horrified one. He  _knew_ he needed that contact to succeed in his goals. He knew he should weep in joy at the chance-

But the Dark Lord's company humbled and scared him as much as it thrilled him.

Harry couldn't underestimate the man. What if Voldemort dredged up enough proof of his disloyalty through their conversations?

"I- I'm honoured-" Harry stuttered. He observed Voldemort through coyly lowered eyelashes. Pulled on an innocent look. "But I really don't deserve this privilege-"

"Of course you don't," Voldemort interrupted his starting flow of self-deprecation with a cold voice. "Luck stands on your side though, and I do believe you are not  _completely_ bereft of redeemable features. Although we will talk more about this once you actually prove to me and to the others that my choice isn't based on the desire to take pity on the stray and welcome you into the fold of the powerful on mercy alone."

Harry took it as a cue to leave. The 'dream' was falling away. Even the edges of the office blurred around him, as well as Voldemort's form.

"You will not find yourself disappointed in me," Harry promised sweetly. Layers and layers of deceptions and semi-truths covered that vow.

True, Voldemort would not be disappointed. The man appreciated cunning even in his own nemeses.

A final smirk spread upon the Dark Lord's face.

"We'll see."

A gleam of red accompanied Harry through the rest of his dreams. It acted as Harry's guide through unfamiliar shadows and shades of black that his new nightmares comprised.

* * *

The Dark Lord smirked into his tea. One lump of sugar, a touch bitter; he loved it.

Immortality had certain perks and quirks... and  _costs_  one had to pay, as well as big and small sacrifices. Sleep was one of them. It didn't usually bother Voldemort to spend his nights in the eerie silence of his ancestral home, since Morpheus didn't rush to embrace him, probably as scared as his witless followers, running the other way at the sight of the Dark Lord...

Dreams were useless anyway. Voldemort concentrated on reality.

His plans were wrapping up perfectly. By now, he had perfected the process. His followers, however clever, or ambitious, or proud, had one thing in common: their desire to impress him. Their desire to hold his attention. Their desire to be complimented by him, and praised, and petted...

He was a merciful Lord. How could he not use them and grant all those things in return?

Sometimes, he gave them back as much as he took. Most of the time he gave them just enough to please. Often he gave them back nothing at all except for superficial boons that never mattered.

Harry Potter fell into the latter category.

Voldemort licked his lips. In front of him a photograph of the youth taunted him. The boy, Potter, looked around fifteen in it, a twinge younger than now. All pale limbs and stunning features, black hair crowning his head and emerald eyes astoundingly sharp.

Those eyes gave the boy away. They implied that Potter hid things about himself that Bellatrix with her self-absorbed nature never glimpsed. Things Rodolphus sneered at and Rabastan never cared about.

Voldemort had not grasped yet the extent of Potter's mystery, but with a few talks and some head-petting he was sure that the door screening the boy's secrets would budge. His charms didn't fail, after all.

Unveiling Potter's dirty skeletons would provide a challenge to Voldemort. Most likely. Probably. Hopefully.

Voldemort preferred targeting that sort of males and females. Young, powerful, gorgeous, ambitious, with paths of life spreading out in front of them, and guides standing by each one, waiting to steer them along the chosen road. They had so much potential. They could become fathers or mothers, politicians or ambassadors, artists or musicians, historians or bookkeepers... Endless potential.

Until he came along. And all those potential opportunities crumbled, all those roads muddled and coated with a veneer of dust, till they were unseen and all but inexistent, and those souls truly lost themselves in all that jumbled mess.

When all the paths and guides vanished,  _he_ burst into existence in front of them to offer a steering hand and enthrall them into the chains of obedience.

Voldemort had an exquisite taste in his 'victims'.

Harry Potter.

He was already working on the boy.

He wanted to strip that independent, stubborn, mesmerising creature of his purpose, layer by layer, until all that was left were the bare bones of the core personality. And then he would flesh him out again. Meat made up of servitude, devotion, faith.

Make the boy work for him. Fall in love with him. Adore him, trail after him like a lost puppy... Soil his parents' memories for him.

After all, Voldemort was in no rush to carry out his plans. He would keep the beautiful boy in favour for a long, pleasant while. Enjoy him. Savour the other's defeat and willing submission.

Laugh at Lily Potter's last sacrifice.

Voldemort sipped his tea again. Yes, he loved it bittersweet.

* * *

Harry still avoided thinking about the Voldemort-induced "dream" and the implications of it. He scrubbed the skin of his Dark Mark an angry red every time he took a shower and dreaded the after-mission weekend when he would be forced to endure Lucius Malfoy and his drawling self.

All in all, Harry didn't enjoy his life that morning. Even his favourite treacle tart didn't brighten the day.

On the other hand, the flapping of wings and Hedwig that landed seconds later did.

Harry's sharp eyes spied the item she carried in her claws even before her arrival. He snatched it away before anyone else could see the contents. One did not usually get illegal potions first-thing in the morning.

"Thanks, Hedwig, girl," Harry muttered sleepily, absently petting his owl before sending her away to the owlery. "I'll drop by later with a letter maybe."

"What are you getting, Potter?"

That voice, drawling in a tone that attempted to dim the interest and failed, Harry would know everywhere. Malfoy.  _Of course._

Although their housemates' animosity in regards to Malfoy was waning, the blond still refused to leave Harry's side, tagging along as if glued to Harry's body. Sometimes the teen was a bloody challenge to get off his back, trailing after him like a sneering, useless puppy. Malfoy never struck a conversation, never strove to socialise with Harry – but he needed to stay close.

Harry admitted it freaked him out.

He also admitted it benefitted. The more Malfoy followed him, the bigger would be his debt when Harry came to gather it.

Didn't mean Harry had to _like_  the ferret's company.

"Malfoy. You are imposing," Harry deadpanned. His fingers itched to pull out his wand and fire a hex or two in the blond's direction, but alas, such a move was the embodiment of suicide. In disfavour or no, no one mucked about with the Malfoy heir.

Said Malfoy heir knew that well.

"Don't get your knickers in a bunch, Potter." Malfoy sneered into the book he had taken to carry around. Harry didn't care to read the title, but it became Malfoy's refuge in those days of ill treatment. "If I am stuck with you, the least I can do is ensure you don't keep any secrets..."

Malfoy threw him a disdainful look full of scorn, sitting down elegantly and filling the empty space beside Harry. News didn't get around that he was a squad leader yet, but once it happened, Harry savoured the knowledge that people wouldn't be quite as condescending to his presence.

"But this is boring. You are  _awfully_  transparent, Potter. Is being enigmatic for my pleasure too much to ask for?"

_And isn't this ironic?_

Harry smiled thinly. The smile came out exactly as 'enigmatic' as Malfoy wanted it.

"If you like unveiling riddles, go buy a book of them. I doubt you will be able to solve much of it, but at least it will keep you from bothering busy people," Harry mocked. He opened his mouth to continue, but his eye spied a flurry of movement at the Hufflepuff table: Susan Bones and her flock of friends were departing from the Great Hall.

Time to act out the second stage of his plan.

The tendrils of Legilimency around Harry, which he had learnt to more or less control, fluttered into existence around him.

"Good luck with solving riddles, Malfoy. I'm off to  _weave_  real-life mysteries."

Harry slipped out of the Great Hall after the Hufflepuffs. Malfoy's indignant shouts followed him on his heels.

* * *

"Hello, Susan," Harry greeted the girl warmly.

Some of that tender tone rang true: of all Hogwarts students he considered Bones one of the most likeable witches. Perhaps the hair was at fault – flaming red, like his mother's, it reminded him of a spicy shampoo and dances in the backyard.

The sentence that hung on her parents haunted the girl. Harry eyed the signs of weariness and exhaustion. Deep lines, bags under muddled blue eyes, gaunt cheeks, a scent of unclean clothes at which he wrinkled his nose...

Everything told Harry that the Order most likely wasn't going to save her parents-

Or it was a test for him. To see if he, knowing full well the implications and the risks, would chance saving the lives of Light supporters. In that case, Harry wouldn't disappoint.

"Harry?" she asked, her eyes widening marginally. Her shoulders tensed. She gripped the strap of her bag so tightly that her knuckles paled, completely white in the hallway. "Are you- You are here on mission matters."

Oh. Now Harry understood her almost hostile posture. If she believed he strove to dispose of her parents, her attitude didn't surprise him in the least.

Still, he had to ascertain her connection with the Light side, to prove that he wasn't fighting for the lives of people he didn't know for no benefit at all. A Slytherin stayed a Slytherin in every situation, and Harry rivalled Voldemort in his ruthless determination. He couldn't afford spreading himself thin on goals of others that wouldn't further his own.

So, time to use some Legilimency.

Harry started blabbering some condolences nonsense while his inner eye focused on Bones and her mind. Her feeble Occlumency shields couldn't contain her grief or her traitorous thoughts – which Harry found completely idiotic. If you're stepping onto the path of treason, at least please take the basic precautions for your own safety, Merlin's nipples! – and so Harry had to bat those nuisances away.

He dug deeper.

Now he bypassed the memories on the forefront of her mind, minor facts that didn't interest him: her crush and her homework, friends and pastimes... Deeper and deeper he burrowed himself, methodically averting the dangers of triggering traumatic recollections that could overwhelm him and entrance his attention completely, thus leaving him an empty body standing with empty eyes like a doll or a golem.

_Where the hell did she bury it? Here?.. Fuck, I don't care about her childhood misfortunes! The Order memories-_

Finally, Harry's search bore fruit.

With a sense of victory engulfing him, Harry plunged into a set of memories that  _reeked_  of Light magic.

They showed balderdash.

People talking gibberish and repeating the same movements, half like a malfunctioning record, half like a circus show. Magic burst behind his eyelids.

Harry recognised the sings of a powerful Vow.

The same signs that Granger's mind had yielded, and Hannah Abbot's, and Weasley's, and some others'. Add to that the sweet vanilla-tinted flavour of Light spells...

"I have a proposition," Harry offered suddenly. His face lit up with a smile as he carefully cast a Silencing Charm and a strong ward to keep out any interlopers. "I know how to save your parents. We can do it together. All we need is the assistance of a very close and trusted friend of yours, and some of our famous rebels."

Susan Bones knew she made a deal with the muggle Devil the moment her eyes lit up with hope.

* * *

"Hello, Goyle," Harry purred, his smile widening when the larger teen whirled around, fright evident in his posture. The moment passed, and disdain replaced the fear in Goyle's murky eyes when he saw who was calling him.

"Potter." One would think his name was an insult. Harry didn't mind. In fact, his smirk only grew at the obvious murderous intent his presence gathered. "Little mudbloods like you should keep away and know their place."

"Above you?" Harry mocked before he sighed mock-sadly, shaking his head, and sashayed closer to the other Slytherin.

He exuded a seductive aura and utilised some tricks that wouldn't work on anyone with half a mind: arched his back, rolled his hips, puffed out his lips, hooded his eyes. Cheap, wantonly monkeyshines that dirtied him, made him feel greasy and unclean but worked wonders on Goyle's crotch.

"Tut, tut, Goyle. This is no way to talk to your superior. Be a good lapdog and I might chirp a word to the Dark Lord." Harry narrowed his eyes in a semblance of a closed-eyed smile. "We're going to see a lot of each other, him and me, you see."

Goyle curled his upper lip. Snorting, he turned away from Harry.

"The Dark Lord won't listen to your babble, blood traitor. Shut the fuck up and choke on the dick you sucked to get this position." Goyle stormed up to him and smirked nastily as he flexed his fists. "We all know a pretentious little mudblood like you ain't worth more than a cheap whore."

"I'd say that to be appointed squad leader I'd get to be a very expensive whore," Harry drawled impassively.

Goyle's insinuations had followed him through his entire childhood. They didn't sting. Not anymore.

Seeing that Goyle was fuming at the remark, Harry held up his hands in a placatory gesture. Wouldn't do to have the aberration too pig-headed for their looming deal. Still, the smirk on his face refused to vanish.

"Now, now, I'm not here to pull at your nerves, whatever hidden agenda you've prescribed me. I've gone through all the trouble to dig you out of this hole you were hiding in because I want to offer you a proposition."

Goyle snorted. "I'd rather fuck a slug than accept."

"That can be arranged, too." Harry's voice dropped a few notches. His emerald eyes blazed a cold fire as he directed his intense stare at Goyle, making the other shiver. "Don't worry, I won't subject the poor slug to this torture. It's enough that you had to swallow a few."

A vein popped on Goyle's forehead. Oops. Perhaps Harry shouldn't have reminded him of that duel if he wanted to keep things half-peaceful between them.

Then, Harry's grin returned with vengeance. He made the final single step to the seething Goyle.

"A slug would not accept your advances... But I might."

Goyle stilled. The spark in his murky brown eyes screamed 'lust' as his hand lunged to grab Harry's shoulder. Exactly the moment the black-haired boy had been waiting for.

Harry danced away from the reach. His lips pulled apart into a playful grin as he drawled mockingly, tapping his finger on his lips, "Of course, not for free."

Goyle snorted again. "You're really a harlot, Potter. Selling yourself for money?" His eyes hungrily roamed all over Harry's well-built figure. "I can work with that."

"Not for money. We can make a different sort of deal. A more... complex one. We duel right now," Harry sing-songed. Goyle immediately tensed, ready to move away. "Now, now, is this fear I scent? Are you frightened of me, Gregory Goyle?"

Harry's eyes hypnotised his opponent, didn't let him look away, and the voice, pitched low just so, only enhanced the effect.

"Don't be a moron!" Goyle snapped and balled his fists.

_Pretentious fool. Does he know I'm going to enjoy wiping the floor with him? This is the example of a person whom life doesn't teach anything._

"Then we duel. The winner gets the other in his complete control for one day. Before the duel, we make Wizarding Vows to ensure that the terms of this one-day enslavement and what either of us asks the other stay hidden."

As expected, Goyle bristled. "What, I don't even get to tell the others of all the ways I'll fuck you in?"

Harry smiled sharply, linking his fingers together.

"If you win, you can blabber it to everyone you want."

Goyle stood still for a moment, adopting what he called his 'deep thinking' expression, but to Harry looked like a troll trying to figure out what two plus two would equal to.

"But I wanna tell you something first, Potter."

"I'm all ears," Harry bit out impatiently; they were wasting time!

A dangerous gleam entered Goyle's eyes, not unlike Voldemort's in that dream, but much less shiver-inducing. Just freakish.

"I'll fuck you so hard and so raw that your throat will be hurting for weeks," he promised maliciously, lips curled. Harry's eyes widened. He  _so_  didn't want to hear that; the images appalled him. "For a single day, we will do it in a classroom, and on a teacher's table, and near Snape's cauldron's, and in the hallways. Without lube, with conjured objects and ropes-"

"Can I ask you a question?" Harry piped in, warily staring at Goyle's flushed cheeks and visible excitement.

"Try me, blood traitor."

"From what height did they drop you in your childhood?"

* * *

The duel was almost over and hadn't tired him out. Harry hardly broke into sweat. His wand sliced through the air with fluid movements and easily conjured shields, fired out powerful curses, reflected Goyle's junxes. His opponent was purely a heavy hitter. After exhausting most of his magical resources, he succumbed to Harry's tricks. An empowered  _Expelliarmus_  crashed him into the wall.

Harry strode confidently to the awkwardly lying figure. The sense of déjà vu followed him throughout the entire scene even as he crouched by Goyle.

"You see, dear Goyle," Harry started, his voice almost gentle like a mother's caress or a balm on stinging wounds, "you never stood a chance. If there was even a tiniest possibility of you winning this duel, I'd have backed off from this little scheme..."

Under Goyle's glower Harry smoothed the hair on the teen's head, patting him like he would a dog along the way. Ah, sweet revenge.  _Useful_ revenge.

"You disgust me. I'll never let you touch me in any way, no matter how much you yearn for me. You are nothing more than a disgusting worm, Gregory Goyle, and now, when I'm a squad leader, you're my slave." Harry bent over and his hand clasped to Goyle's upper arm. "And do you know what people do with slaves? They utilise them."

Harry burst out into peals of laughter.

"The best thing is you won't dare go to the Dark Lord about this, because as soon as you voice him my terms, you'll lose your magic, and I daresay Lord Voldemort has no use for squibs."

"You'll pay for this," Goyle spat out furiously. Harry waved him off.

"Yes, yes, cue in that villainous catchphrase – how sweet. Except that villains are usually thwarted in the end, don't you know?"

* * *

The entire squad plus the instructor all apparated in front of the Bones' house.

Susan Bones looked a wreck with a nervous breakdown, while the others simply looked uncomfortable. Thorfinn Rowle closed his eyes briefly before he dismantled the wards.

"Now, kiddies, raise the Anti-Apparition wards and we go in!"

Hermione set out to work, of course, after an imperceptible nod from Harry. He traded looks with 'Goyle'. Everything was coming along nicely. He only hoped that the Order wouldn't muck it up.


	8. Saving Bones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU to everyone who has reviewed this story! Or simply faved/followed it. Despite my sort-of-writing-block, every time I received a review, I dragged myself to the laptop to write at least a couple of paragraphs. So, thank each of you for being the inspiration for this story.

As soon as Harry stepped onto the porch, a footstep croaked in ominous warning. A frown crinkled his forehead.

Thorfinn Rowle, the instructor, stopped the others from following him into the house.

"This is a test for Potter," the man hissed at them. "You lot stay behind. Potter, you've got to drag the traitorous shitholes here out of the house, torture them, and let the lass-" He gestured at a very shaken Susan. "-finish them off. Got it?"

Susan trembled and Harry offered a commiserating hand on her shoulder before going inside.

The house itself greeted Harry with the cheery sounds of the wizarding wireless and the smell of mouth-watering food – lamb and spices, probably. Cutlery clanked against plates.

Sneaking into the kitchen, he saw the turned backs of the Bones couple. The husband and the wife chatted quietly, lost in reminiscence of the start of their relationship, and Harry wanted to cringe. He didn't, but he stepped in, purposefully loud.

"How quaint," Harry said instead of a greeting. "You've got a death warrant over your head, and your relationship interests you more still."

They whipped their heads around, paling as if drained of their calm and joy. Edgar jumped to his feet, wand in hand. His ferocious charcoal eyes narrowed at the sight of the formal Death Eater robes and the mask plastered over Harry's face.

Realisation dawned.

"Why are the Dark Lord's servants here?" the man questioned despite the awareness swimming in his eyes.

"Take an educated guess,  _traitor_."

"We didn't- we never-"

Harry raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "The St Mungo's incident, Healer Bones?"

"I don't have access to the ward framework in the hospital. I am a mere healer, I heal people," Edgar denied calmly. Seemingly calmly, for beneath the veneer of nonchalance Harry sensed fear and anxiety. "The tragedy happened because of the Resistance's intelligence, not because of our side's failings."

"You  _Imperio_ 'ed one of the guards to let you know the blind spot in the wards, and as a healer who knows the nooks and crannies of St. Mungo's by heart, you easily showed the Resistance the stealthiest paths to their goal."

Edgar's wand slashed through the air, weaving a battle spell. Harry tsked; he couldn't have any of that now.

How inconvenient.

He had learnt to more or less control the tendrils of Legillimency gifted to him by the ritual, so he used the ability to outstretch them and slip into the man's mind. A maelstrom of emotions, and impressions, and scrapes of thought engulfed him, but he didn't let the onslaught of foreign feelings prevent him from influencing the man's mind. He spread compulsion to stop fighting and come with him willingly across the man's mind like a soothing balm.

Edgar fought the intrusion. Tried to. He lost.

His wand dropped from his suddenly slack hands when an alien mind swept away his own.

* * *

They appeared in a mindscape. Harry decided to paint it with something neutral and relatively pleasant. The scenery of a forest tinted in soothingly green colours suited him perfectly. Edgar Bones blinked a few times in a sequence before glancing around, bewildered, until the realisation that Harry had used Legilimency hit in.

Tapping an impatient foot, Harry waited until the man finished his observation of the place and snapped his eyes to him.

"You look a bit too comfortable here. Let's change it!"

Harry snapped his fingers. Being his mindscape, the place immediately followed his desires and spouted vines from the ground. They wrapped around Edgar's legs and arms. He didn't attempt to struggle. Harry raised his eyebrows at the reaction. At the lack of it.

The man only eyed him warily through a coarse blonde fringe.

"Trapping a person in a foreign mind... It is a frightening skill to have," Edgar said softly. Now that the initial shock had passed, he trained his eyes on Harry's hooded form, never leaving him for a second. Harry admired this sort of vigilance.

"I'm a frightening man to meet," Harry replied in a louder voice with an inclination of his head. Slowly and tantalisingly, he slid the mask off his face until his features shone with paleness in the shades of the forest trees.

He brusquely walked up to Edgar Bones, taking in widened eyes. The teen leaned in to view the man's face better and decipher his emotions. His gaze picked out nothing, but as a long-term traitor Edgar must have learnt the art of acting by now.

Most likely, no less than Harry himself. Unexpected feeling of kinship sprouted.

"Hello, Edgar Bones," Harry whispered as he sank his nails deep into the wizard's arms to keep him still. "Do you know who I am?"

The man looked down and squinted. His eyes lit up with recognition in a moment.

"Harry Potter," he murmured incredulously. "Lily and James's son…" His face cracked into a bright grin that looked boyishly handsome on the aged face. "It seems  _he_  has not corrupted you yet. Good, good, this is a relief. Not that I would imagine Potters' son working for the Dark Lord-"

"Quiet!" Harry hissed. His nails drew blood. Edgar cringed, and Harry stifled a grimace. Honestly, Light wizards these days. No endurance at all.

"My 'comrades'," Harry snorted with amusement, "can still discover us any minute. The more we dally here, the higher the chances are."

"Aren't you a squad leader?" Edgar asked seriously, piercing Harry with his black eyes. His face grim and set, he didn't look like the wizard in the photos around the burning house: not at all grinning or guffawing. Harry liked that attitude...

"Won't it bring you trouble to help me?"

...Which didn't prevent him from throwing a disdainful glance at the man and sneering.

"Who do you take me for?" he whispered harshly. He still worried though: Legilimency provided space to talk in private but didn't shorten the time they spent.

_If I don't hurry up, bad old Rowle's going to come in and see us. And_ _probably_ _murder me,_ _just_ _for company. He's never_ _really_ _liked me after the whole ordeal with Greyback's 'mysterious' assassination._

And it wasn't even proven, besides!

Honestly, people suspected him in every evil-doing... he had tapped only in about a quarter of them, really.

"I'm careful," Harry continued, stepping back. "Very careful. And of course I wouldn't bother with you if it didn't bring me some sort of..." He paused. His lips stretched into a tiny smirk. "Gratification."

Edgar Bones's charcoal eyes sharpened at Harry's words and gestures. He tried to move, but with a 'tut-tut-tut' from Harry, the vines wrapped around him tighter. For a second they bound him so tight that Harry imagined the man's eyes bulging out of the sockets.

He mentally ordered the plants not to be so blood-thirsty. Even if they were a representation of his mind. A particle of it that he suppressed, but which sometimes managed to break through.

"You want a reward," Edgar stated. Harry nodded.

The Light wizard scrutinised him. The cheer that had briefly emerged at discovering Harry's identity now dimmed.

Good. Harry wanted to forge an open alliance for once, not one built on false promises and non-existent trust and deceptive kindness.

Always be truthful, his mother had said to him once. Nothing destroys friendships more than an improperly concealed lie. And there doesn't exist a disguise which would conceal forever.

"Very appropriate, no?" Harry shrugged. "I save you and your family. You help me save myself. And the world, of course."

"So you don't want me to aid Voldemort?" Edgar asked, his forehead scrunched up in sceptical disbelief.

"Have you taken leave of your senses, old man? Would I be conducting obscure rituals – which bloody hurt and annoyed the hell out of me, by the way! – and making deals here with you in a Legilimency-summoned mindscape if I wanted you to surrender to Voldemort?"

"I don't know. The way a Dark wizard's mind works is a mystery, the road to unriddling which is closed to me forever."

Harry snorted and crossed his arms over his chest. "You do realise I'm from a Light family?"

"You don't look like it," Edgar replied calmly. Unexpectedly for himself, Harry shifted when the man's gaze pierced through his defences. "You don't act like it either. I see nothing of Light in you."

Stilling, Harry clenched his hands into fists.

"Just because I proposed a deal instead of saving all of you in a blaze of glory, righteousness, and altruism?"

"Never seek payment from a deed your humanity obliges you to commit for free."

The words stabbed and wounded. If Harry had a heart, it would bleed. Fortunately, he didn't.

He ignored the scorching shame at the words. Ignored the recollections of Susan's lifeless, red-rimmed eyes and fumbling hands. Ignored the sight of the wizard, who, for all his determination and cool, radiated fear.

Harry was good at ignoring.

"I don't have time for a useless chat," he said. His fingers twitched to do something, and Harry knew that if he found no release for his magic in the next hours, he was going to blow up half the Room of Requirements when he got back to Hogwarts. And then he'd probably screw up the wards. As much as magic blessed him with large quantities of power, it doomed him to soothe his temper by duelling and incanting. "Say, want to have your wifey and kiddy still alive and kicking?"

"My family are my priority. I will do everything within my power to protect them, so long as it doesn't cross my moral boundaries."

"Moral boundaries. Of course," Harry deadpanned with unveiled disgust. "I've lost these some years ago and never wanted them back. Much happier without." He shook his head. "Anyway. I talked to your daughter."

Pain flickered in Edgar's eyes. "I don't want her to watch," he said softly. If wind was blowing, Harry would have missed it. "I would give anything just to spare her the trauma."

"Worse than watch, they're going to make her  _do_  that." Harry's smirk soured into mild irritation. "You won't die though, so don't bother with a will or making up a list of parting words; these are useless anyway, besides. We have a plan that requires just a bit of waiting, some help from your beloved Order, and the aid of my temporary allies. And a vow from you, of course. I don't trust Order members to keep your word."

"What do you require from me?" Despite narrowing his eyes in wariness, Edgar didn't move once, placidly allowing himself to dangle in the embrace of the vines.

Harry clenched his jaw.

"I want to use the Order before it uses me. Your sister is an authority in their ranks, right? And they respect you, too. And you're a clever person. I want you to apply that spying-lying-manipulating streak I know you have, all to my cause."

Edgar shook his head, tentatively.

"We're allies, the Order and you. Deceit in our ranks will only bring the Resistance to our knees."

"I'm careful. No one will know, if it's really only me doing the deception there and no one else mucks it up. I have already started it, actually." Harry smiled, almost kindly. "Do you think that I don't have someone to pin the blame for the Dark Lord's death on? Do you think that I've caught the Order's attention because of your competence?"

Harry scoffed. He pulled out a pocket watch and glanced at the time. They had about seven or ten minutes left. He was going to cast a  _Crucio_  on Edgar after their talk, to make it seem as if he had been torturing the man on the side the whole time.

Throfinn Rowle would only praise him. Becoming a True Death Eater test passed!

"This is not the morally correct way to fight a common enemy," Edgar said and shook his head again. They were tiny shakes, just a couple of times, but they were getting repetitive. "If you kill the Dark Lord using such methods, when our descendants research the history, they will be disappointed to discover the underhanded means used to attain this victory."

_I have half a mind to walk up to him and pat his head for being such a good Light-indoctrinated doggie._

"I don't really bother with petty struggles to justify myself to others. Acting treacherously, acting cunningly, acting ruthlessly..." Harry trailed off. He saw trees, and he saw fog deeper in the forest, but he didn't actually perceive them. "Once my mission is complete, I will have a lot of time to make up a hauntingly beautiful tale of my supposed heroics."

_Except that I have no wish to do this. An ugly truth trumps the splendour of lie any day._

"And is it right?"

The question Harry asked himself every day, wasn't it?

Sometimes he cared about the answer. More often he repressed his natural response. He wanted to say he had thrown sentimentality away years back, but he preferred not to lie to himself: even now Harry sometimes worried about his bouts of cruelty and about his single-minded obsession with killing the Dark Lord.

But the key to it all, the answer to it all, was just there: his obsession was his form of madness. Consuming and dark and so stifling he wanted to  _Obliviate_  himself, but so compelling that he buried any doubts and continued forward. Sometimes, he imagined himself a moth speeding to a flame. Sometimes, he envisioned the obsession to be a ruthless executioner leading him to his guillotine.

Either way, he wanted the obsession  _gone_.

He wouldn't get rid of it so long as the Dark Lord continued living.

"Perhaps not," he said out loud. Edgar was observing him, and for a moment Harry thought that the man  _saw_. "Certainly easy though, and more useful in the long run. I can't imagine how your side had held out for so long with this sort of morals."

Edgar stared at him for a few seconds before Harry lifted his watch and jabbed a finger into it. Time was flying fast.

"You are more like Voldemort than you imagine. Careful, Mr. Potter, you cannot avoid burning yourself once you start fighting fire with fire. According to a reliable source, the Dark Lord wasn't born with this title; through the years his morals degraded, and when they fell away completely, he became what he is now."

"'Fell away'... an interesting word choice, typical of speaking about constraints or barriers. So even you must admit that warm and fuzzy feelings hold you back?" Harry looked at the time again. "That aside, we don't have much time for chatting. There is Polyjuice involved. We have to be quick."

Harry snapped his fingers and the vines fell off. When they hit the ground, they vanished, as if never there.

Once released, Edgar flexed his fingers.

"Thank you." He paused and offered Harry a too gentle smile. "Despite your earlier words, you seem like a nice person."

Harry rolled his eyes.

"You haven't pledged your loyalty to Dumbledore yet? Then you never will."

"I will never serve Vol-"

"Haven't you heard a word of what I said before? We share the same opinion in his case and both long to dispose of the Dark Lord, however different our reasons are."

"We're on the same side, then. You want us to be allies?"

Edgar stepped up to Harry, his slightly wrinkled face scrunching up in pensiveness. He looked both glad and... something else. Although he stood very close to the man, the younger wizard couldn't decipher his expression fully. And he couldn't read anyone's mind in a mindscape; the rules of Legilimency prevented that.

Harry shrugged.

"You can treat it that way, but always remember that you will have to listen to my words and heed them, and fulfil my orders. I'm simply a more superior ally."

"You seem like an insipid Lord to me."

"I don't want to make others serve and submit to me," Harry confessed. "I don't want to lead. I have my cosy one-man army and don't want to change it, but unfortunately, seeing how strong Voldemort is, I need some help in the long run. Oh, don't look as if I were slowly and sadistically ripping your heart out with a rusty spoon. All you have to do is relay to me the information you get at the Order's quarters, that's all. Not go on a murdering rampage in the headquarters."

"This little is enough to view me as a traitor."

"I prefer to say 'a person with ambiguous loyalties', but I doubt that the Order would agree with me."

"Someday you will learn to care."

Harry, already prepared to flee the mindscape after relaying the full details of the plan, jerked his head.

"Perhaps," he allowed carefully. "When everything is over, when the Dark Lord is dead and my parents are avenged... Perhaps then I will know true rest. True care."

Wasting half a minute to instruct his newest ally on what he had to do, Harry returned them both to the real world.

He had been more sincere with the man than he had been with anyone else, and for some reason it felt... liberating.

The burden of secrecy weighed a lot, no matter the gladness with which Harry accepted it, and sharing it reduced the tension in him. Even if a little bit.

Not that he would be admitting it to himself again anytime soon.

* * *

Victory thrumming in every vein, Harry slid out of Edgar's mind and took in slack expression and numbness. With a few swooshes through the air, Harry's wand shot out a beam of the Cruciatus in the man's direction, making Edgar fall to the floor in a heap of screams and violent jerks.

With a gasp, Mrs. Bones shot her own  _Confringo_  at him, but a  _Protego_  quickly spilt from Harry's lips. He didn't remove the semi-transparent shield. He didn't want to hurt her, especially not with angry magic still boiling just beneath the surface.

"Not nice, Mrs. Bones." Harry shook his head. "Look at your husband: much more compliant."

"What have you done with him?" she shouted in helpless rage. "He's innocent! Innocent!"

A spark of unexpected compassion blossomed into Harry's chest and he smiled at her, a bit sadly. "Just come with me. It won't be lethal, I promise."

He didn't believe in promises, but they always consoled others.

* * *

"The Bones family, heh." Rowle leered when Harry led the couple out of the house. Mrs. Bones glared at them defiantly, while Edgar walked with a quiet trot like an obedient horse. It didn't really suit the man.

"Finally, Potter," Malfoy huffed in irritation at his appearance. His bony hands were wrapped around his shoulders as he glowered at Harry mutinously. "It's  _freezing_  out there."

"I didn't notice," Harry replied calmly. He tossed Mrs. Bones on the grass, her body squashing some of her well-taken-care of flowers. He ignored Susan's whimper, ignored the woman's struggle.

"Oh, you didn't? Maybe that's because you were inside in the warmth while we had to wait outside as you satisfied your latent sadism?"

The wind chose that exact moment to mess up Malfoy's hair, and Harry couldn't suppress a snort when the blond's fringe slapped into furious blue eyes – obviously, Sleekeazy only held for so long in such weather.

"It's not latent if I actively 'satisfy' it as you say."

"Potter!" Rowle shouted at them. "Stop arguing with lil' Malfoy here like his hubby when we've got traitors to torture."

He pushed Edgar to the ground, too – obviously, all Death Eaters wanted to feel closer to their idol by making others kneel and beg - and ignored Malfoy's indignant yelp.

Harry grimaced. "Yuck. I'd never be Malfoy's hubby."

"Wanna be his wifey then?" Rowle leered suggestively before turning his attention to the Bones couple on the ground. Harry pitied the flowers. He refused to pity the people because then he would do something stupid and reckless – like, step in earlier than needed.

"Now, now, now. Look what we've got here." Rowle's voice pitched higher into a sing-song that Harry instantly hated. Bellatrix used the tone too often-

No, he wouldn't go there. He was on a mission.

Subtly, he traded glances with Hermione, who looked as if she were drowning, and Susan, who almost gave him a shaky smile before stopping herself.

"We haven't done anything to displease the Dark Lord," Mrs. Bones stubbornly insisted. A  _Crucio_  silenced her but didn't diminish the light in her eyes.

Harry felt a pang in his heart. It reminded him of his own mother, reminded him so much-

No, no, no. They were different. The circumstances were different. He would save Susan's mother like he hadn't saved his own – not a second chance, but a healing potion for his soul anyway.

"Potter!" Rowle called out, barely glancing at Harry or anyone in the squad. His eyes were trained on the figures on the ground, the eyes of an arctic wolf. He gulped down suffering as if it were a jug of ambrosia. "We've got to tell them their crimes first, to refresh their memory."

Harry complied, reciting the St Mungo tragedy, and the passage in the wards, and Edgar's access to many documents and facilities as a healer.

"See?" Walking to the couple, Rowle crouched in front of them. "You've been bad, bad followers, yeah?" He guffawed and patted Edgar on the cheek. "But for all your failure as the Dark Lord's servants, you've been good, good parents. Your daughter surely knows what the right thing is, heh, Susan?"

Harry looked at Susan and wished he hadn't. Her complexion contrasted starkly with her flaming red hair, and though she didn't cry, wetness around her eyes gave her feelings away. She constantly glanced at Harry, as if seeking the support he couldn't give in the open.

She was losing confidence in their plan.

The Order wasn't arriving. Even though the time dictated they did.

Harry stomped on his own uncertainty.

"Your daughter," Rowle continued, now in his usual gruff voice, "worships our Lord and serves him right. She knows what she should do right now. Bones- Susan, of course, come here!" he ordered.

Harry's lips thinned. The first few missions the squad listened to the instructor, not the leader, thus he couldn't stop the psychological torment ahead of the girl.

_Well, so long as she doesn't have to kill her mother..._

"Torture Mrs. Bones to death."

The Order was going to arrive.

Susan stepped forward. Clumsily, hesitantly. She tripped over her own foot and almost fell to the ground if not for the arm that Hermione lent to her. Hermione looked even shakier; Harry understood the reason: the muggleborn had to summon the Order through the means available to her only in the group.

She would do so in a minute.

"Now, Susan Bones, show us how good education shouldn't be wasted," Rowle continued nastily. "Or do you want to join mummy 'n' daddy in the mud?"

"I- I'll do it," Susan whispered. Her hands trembled. She didn't look at the ground. "Yes, I- I'll do it. Of course. I always comply with orders."

She raised her wand and cast a pain curse. Not a Cruciatus, but physical damage meant nothing in comparison to the mental torment of being tortured by one's own child.

Unease coiled tightly in Harry's stomach.

Hermione hadn't summoned the Order.

Curses continued. Susan kept them as light as possible, stalling time, careful of not doing any permanent damage. Malfoy's fair skin paled into an ugly ashen colour, and for a second Harry felt pity for him – despite the bravado, Malfoy's personality screamed innocence. The blond bent downwards to retch.

Even Harry...

_It's wrong, playing with prey like this._ _I have no issue with killing, but I would grant mercy to anyone who hasn't committed_ _truly_ _despicable deeds_ _._

Mrs. Bones hadn't betrayed the country – or the Dark Lord. They were killing her just for company, as part of a twisted punishment.

Well, the Order was going to come.

Her screams were getting hoarser. Susan took care of not disfiguring her mother, keeping to the 'invisible' pain curses, but they still caused the woman pain. And with Rowle there she couldn't slack off or show compassion or crumble. Everything would be reported. It would cost her life, gaining her nothing.

Ten minutes of anguish.

Rowle sighed, very loud. "I'm tired. Just off her already, Susan. We've wasted enough time as it is."

Harry stilled.

Susan threw him a look over her shoulder in askance, and Harry forced himself to slip on a smile to calm her down.

Surely Hermione was going to summon the Order now?

A wand made of ominous dark wood rose up into the air, Susan's fingers clutched tightly around it. She exhaled.

"Avada Kedavra!"

Harry wanted the believe that the beam was a fake, that the green light was an ugly illusion, that the Order was going to arrive and provide the necessary distraction, that the stubborn woman wasn't a corpse-

The dead eyes and lifeless body proved the reality of it.


	9. A Leap of Faith Betrayed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, thank you to everyone who has reviewed and let me know their opinion! You're very appreciated, guys! I'll finish answering you in about an hour; wanted to post the chapter as soon as possible :) Actually, it's your kind words which helped me regain my writing spirit and jot this chapter down sooner than in half a year ;)
> 
> Secondly, an even greater thanks to the lovely FalconLux for beta-reading! Especially so quickly and efficiently. Without her support, this chapter wouldn't have seen the light of day for another week.
> 
> Warning: a teensy bit of gore in this chapter.
> 
> That said, enjoy!

Sometimes it's fated.

When Harry glanced at Susan, a pang of commiseration pierced his heart. He understood the impotence of watching the remnants of one's childhood vanish in the grip of loss.

Her face as pale as death's hands, she let her wand slip from her fingers. Her eyes stared at her mother's corpse, which spread twistedly on the grass in a parody of sleep, vestiges of disbelief forever etched on her features. At least she hadn't suffered. Small mercies were still mercies.

"She's dead," Susan whispered. Harry clenched his jaw and restrained himself from walking over to comfort the girl.

_Where is the Order?_

"Of course she is!" Thorfinn Rowle threw his hand up into the air and guffawed. Dismissal laced his every gesture along with hints of madness. "You've cast a Killing Curse on her, girl, of course she's dead now! Just a body- nah, a corpse. Wanna say goodbye to mummy now?"

"She's dead," Susan hollowly repeated.

Rowle laughed.

His laugh grated on Harry's hearing. Disgust, anger, and disdain spasmed in him for Susan's sake. Memories flitted through his mind, memories of Greyback's triumph stamped on the werewolf's face after he defeated Harry's father, and the helplessness ripping through him at the time, and the rage he had experienced so acutely that he had launched at him and attempted to attack the ma- werewolf.

And then a different set of memories burst through the dam of childhood recollections.

Greyback's mangled body parts gathered into a neat pile. His head, a victorious grin painted by his blood, stood on top of the pile, a bizarre crown of fingers and splinters of his wand lying on his mane of hair. 'Crown for the winner,' Harry had painted with magic in the air right above the head.

He gazed at Susan and Edgar, both crushed and lifeless, and decided he would help them at least in one thing if his current plan went pear-shaped.

_Even if this woman couldn't have salvation… She can have vengeance. I'll assist Susan._ _I've got little experience in assassination, but it's a skill which comes with intuition and a little bit of research_ _._

"She's dead."

Goyle moved forward, as if wanting to help and comfort Susan, but Harry surreptitiously grasped his forearm with a warning glare. The Order or not, their initial scheme had to continue. Harry knew to think on his feet. They couldn't afford revelation now.

Harry thanked Magic that Rowle was too immersed into goading Susan to pay attention to them now, because Goyle snarled at him and attempted to wrench his forearm away. Harry clutched it tighter.

They couldn't afford disobedience either.

Harry cast a notice-me-not charm on them before leaning on his toes to snap in Goyle's face, "Listen now, Hannah! I've got the solution for this but you have to follow my every order. Your Polyjuice will expire in about forty minutes- we have to be quick! Have to-"

"Her mum is dead!" Hannah boomed in Goyle's voice, and Harry thanked himself for putting up the notice-me-not charm.

"Yes, and we will be, too, if you blunder the entire operation now!" Harry bit out in response. A glance at Rowle told him that the man was getting bored with taunting an unresponsive Susan.

_Fast, fast, fast – we have to do something very fast!_

Hannah/Goyle/whatever he called that weird hybrid of appearance and soul continued yanking away from Harry, which only added to his overall distress with the situation.

"Can't we distract Rowle and Malfoy and just let him escape?"

"We can't let him 'just escape' because then Voldemort's going to Crucio me into the next century!" Harry hissed. "And then he'll pass me over to his sycophantic groupies to entertain themselves! There's this little thing called 'self-preservation'. Try to acquire it; it helps!"

Hannah looked ready to retort, but Harry threw a look at Hermione, and at Malfoy standing a foot away from Rowle, and an idea already formed in his mind.

"I know how to do it! Listen, attack Malfoy!"

"Excuse me?" A discombobulated expression marred Goyle's face, except that here was nothing to mar there.

Harry shook his head impatiently. Rowle was already twirling his wand and looking at Edgar in contemplation.

"Just attempt it! But don't hit Malfoy, hit Rowle instead! Malfoy's got enough self-preservation instincts to dodge your curse, and Rowle won't be expecting an attack. Do it!"

"Why should I-"

"No. Time!" Harry hissed and almost shoved Goyle out of the notice-me-not bubble.

Goyle glowered at him but obliged and raised his wand to shout a 'Petrificus Totalus' at Malfoy, who noticed it in the last second before jumping to a side. Rowle fell down as still as stone, his eyes half-open and not even his eyelids moving.

"Goyle you bloody moron!" Malfoy bellowed as he staggered to his feet. His hand flew to his hair to smooth it into the sleek shape it had been in. "Congratulations for casting the petrifying curse for the first time in your life for no reason but- argh!"

A sleeping charm banged the blond into the ground again. The hair in disarray and all. Harry snorted.

Susan snapped out of her haze while Edgar rushed to his feet to embrace his daughter while skewering Harry with his gaze. "What are you doing?"

His voice slashed through the air like a whip, accusation clear in it, and Harry responded with a stony look.

"It is not I who betrayed you today," he said softly. Understanding fleeted across Edgar's face before he nodded, his eyes glued to the fallen body of his wife.

"The plan?" the man asked.

" _You_  may go to your wife's side and make her look presentable after her demise," Harry said quietly. He beckoned Hermione, who stared at them in astounded amazement, closer to their little circle of plotters. "Her death wasn't for nought; she bought enough time to save you at least."

Edgar shook his head.

"I would have sacrificed all my time if it gifted her with a chance to live."

"Yes, yes, but you couldn't. Now, before you sacrifice your time without gifting anyone with anything – how about we execute my plan?" Harry asked irritably. Too many emotions warred in him right now to keep his cool, not to mention the ramifications he would have to suffer, and the perfection he would have ensure in the entire enterprise. Failure? Not an option.

And so, Harry donned the mantle of leadership.

"Hermione, start Obliviating Draco. I'll implant false memories with Legilimency later. Susan, step aside and let me do the spellwork on your father. Oh, and drop your father's hair into the Polyjuice. Hannah, help Hermione if she needs it- if she doesn't, just don't get in the way. I'll explain everything in a few minutes."

Commands flew swiftly from his mouth as he acted, too, casting a complicated Human Transfiguration charm on Edgar Bones and witnessing the man changing his form. The Light wizard's features slowly morphed into those of an inanimate object, the face losing its sharpness, the body losing the limbs. His skin colour greyed to the point it became almost metallic. A few tense minutes later Harry stared at an unremarkable pebble.

He crouched and whispered to it, "Remember who the true traitors to your family are, Edgar Bones."

Before lifting the stone Harry cast a Feather-Light Charm on it, because despite the much smaller form the man acquired, the body weight didn't evaporate during Human Transfiguration, and Harry wouldn't have had any chances of carrying the 'pebble' around with his own mass.

Putting on a small smile, he handed the object to Susan. She, still pale and barely breathing, cradled the pebble to her chest, kissing the top. She didn't respond with a smile, but Harry didn't expect her to.

"Malfoy's ready," Hermione called out. She sat on the ground next to the serene blond, his head lying placidly on her knees, and her fingers caressed his scalp. It wasn't out of tenderness. Massaging the scalp helped easing the obliviation process a bit if done masterfully enough. And Hermione had to be at least decent – according to Harry's sources, knowledge of Mind Arts was one of the first things taught to any Resistance member.

Harry waved a hand in dismissal.

"Malfoy can wait. Let's handle Rowle first." His gaze drifted to the petrified man as Harry contemplated what to do with Rowle.

Death awaited the man – Harry was sure of it. Initially, it hadn't been his intention to kill Thorfinn Rowle so early in the game as during their first mission… but someone had to take the place of Edgar Bones. The liquid in the flask with Polyjuice shimmered and lured.

"You act so differently today," 'Goyle' muttered as he watched Harry with wariness. "They never convinced me you could be cool enough as a leader."

"Oh?" Harry asked in fake disinterest. Of course he knew that revealing some of his strength would burst a lot of convenient preconceptions they had of him. Still, with the Order's failure to arrive he didn't have any other choice but to expose his keen mind and quick thinking. "Fascinating. Well, back to Rowle… I think we all know what should be done-"

"The Resistance can take him-"

"I want to kill him," Susan said resolutely, overriding her friend's hesitant suggestions. All eyes snapped to her. Only Harry's shone with understanding; Hermione looked weary, while Hannah's face was painted with horror and disgust.

"You are welcome," Harry told her. He gestured widely at Rowle who lay spreading on the ground, and reminded her before she grasped her wand and Avada-ed the man right away, "We have to make him drink Polyjuice first though. I have to bring the head to the Dark Lord."

"Wait, wait, wait!" Hannah shrieked and stormed up to her best friend, grasping Susan's Death-Eater robe at the collarbones. "You're definitely not welcome, Susan! I don't know why Potter's suddenly decided to grow balls and act like a damn maniac in his prime- but you don't have to do such monstrosity! We can dispose of Rowle peacefully, maybe drop him off somewhere in the muggle world…"

"Abbott," Harry cut in. His Killing-Curse green eyes sliced across her like a sharpest blade. Hannah shuddered. "Step aside."

As if steered by a secret puppeteer, Hannah obliged and lumbered away from the redhead, her eyes going almost aqua-pale.

Hermione watched him like a hawk, to which Harry shot a taunting smile.

"We've got to un-petrify him first." He cast the spell. A second later Rowle sprung to his feet, mad fury clearly readable in his eyes. He fished out the wand from the hidden holster in the folds of his robes, tucked away so that no one else would find it upon inspection.

"Filthy traitors!" he yelled at them before he spat on the ground and hissed obscenities at their plotting quartet. "I should've expected it with mudbloods and blood traitors all in one mix with a stark mad IQ 50 retard! And you, Potter, you-" He angrily jabbed his wand into the air in Harry's direction. "-you're just as traitorous as you fucking mummy and daddy were!"

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Insults are getting you nowhere, Rowle. How about you spare our eardrums and we spare you the torture?"

"Damn right I will!" Rowle spat and his face twisted into a sardonic grin. "Your dear mummy slaughtered my wife, and it seems like you're continuing the little family tradition. What, planning on some grand-scale bloodshed too any time soon?"

"Every word you say about my parents adds to the number of pain curses I'm going to cast on you." Harry glanced at Susan. "Well, ladies first, of course. I think she has a much better claim on your disgusting life than I do."

The redhead gratefully smiled at him, ignoring her friend's eyes drilling into her with the force of enhancing charms.

Rowle snarled at them before his wand started swishing and slicing through the air, a green beam speeding towards Harry, accompanied by an enraged yell of "Avada Kedavra". Harry dodged in a heartbeat and tugged Susan to the ground. The girl fell with the 'pebble' lovingly held in her hands. She stared at Harry.

"I'll duel with him," Harry announced to his squad. He straightened his back and raised his chin. His wand jumped into his fingers. "He can't get away anyway, what with the anti-apparition wards still up.  _Incendio_!"

Rowle leapt away from the curse, so it struck the house instead, flying right into the window. The inside of the house blazed with light; his  _Incendio_  must have got on a carpet or some such.

_Well, one of the mission requirements_ is _the burning-down of the whole thing. It's a pity we haven't got to investigate it… but it's not like anybody_ _truly_ _cares._

"School-level spells, Potter?" Rowle jeered. "All that talk about you being this great duellist is just that: talk!"

He twirled his wand almost idly as they traded a few more basic spells. Neither of them had ever actually seen each other fight, especially not in a life-or-death battle, so such simple incantations served to find out the opponent's weak side.

Hex, hex, mild curse, jinx, and back to a hex again.

Their wands produced beams and sparkles, thin threads of cutting air and roaring blasts of fire. Some more incantations crashed into the house, hitting both the outer walls and the interior, and now bright flames devoured the quaint house and Mrs Bones' body and illuminated their battle.

Attack, defend, attack, attack,  _attack_.

It was the chant, the prayer of their fight.

"Still here, Potter boy? My, my, Bella's done a good job training you, it seems! But d'ya really think yourself so mighty now that you can cast a silly curse on me?"

"Less chatting, more hitting," Harry responded coolly before lunging, another incantation on his lips. He smirked. "You know, I've been waiting for an opportunity to do this for quite some time. You're the perfect guinea piggy, Mr Thorfinn Rowle."

"What the fuck are you on about?" The man thrust his wand forward to shoot a nasty lungs-rotting hex, which Harry protected himself against with a timely  _Protego_.

Pages from the book on old Light Arts – true Light Arts, not that ersatz weak stuff they sold students today – filled Harry's mind, coupled with the recollections of the few times he snuck out of the common room to practise what he learnt. Schemes, tables, designs of rituals, rune circles – all of those reeked of potency but were also passive incantations, mostly invented for protection or for mass destruction.

They didn't aid in the battlefield, not immediately.

But in the book, Harry had found techniques which did. He couldn't believe that Light Arts were such a treasure of power unknown to most.

Harry chortled. Looking directly at his instructor whom he considered dead already, he said softly, "Do you know why I started with  _fire_  incantations?"

Harry let go of the control over his magic and immersed himself in the realm of pure power. The burning house and the burning body on the ground as well as the few trees they had hit with spells all radiated power. They gave, he took. The Bones' house aided Harry to avenge its fallen inhabitants.

"Very few know that Fiendfyre is a Light spell," Harry said. The fire blazed, agreeing with his words. " _Fiendfyre_!"

He flicked his wand the way an executioner brought down his axe.

Rowle shrieked and attempted Apparition/ Wards held him in place. Someone cried out, but their voice got lost in the miniature apocalypse of local variety.

Harry knew he was overdoing it. They needed Rowle alive for now, after all, and Susan needed to grant herself peace by dealing the fatal blow-

Yet the song of flames, and magic, and his own anticipation echoed into his ears, spurring him on and on to whisper the incantation under his breath to uphold the inferno of fire. Soon enough whimsical shapes formed from the flames, animalistic children of Harry's Light Magic.

Harry didn't will them to appear the way they did – figures of birds of prey, tigers, lions, snakes, dragons all jumped out because his magic directed them intuitively, and that was one of the main differences between the classical Dark and Light Magicks: the issue of control.

Dark Magic lulled, and murmured sweet nothings, and tempted, and cajoled. Dark wizards educated in the real arts grew up self-contained and full of control because otherwise the Dark devoured them, turning them into beasts.

They had to rule their magic and emotions with an iron fist.

To tame the Light, Harry had to let go of all restraints and direct it by instinct. Sometimes he fought for dominance with the magic's will, of course, but then he had to roar back at it and force it to succumb – and it complied with all his wishes.

And so, when Harry snapped out of it, just as a fire serpent readied itself to sink its 'fangs' into the screeching prey, it complied with Harry's wishes, too, and reluctantly backed away. The fire lingered, but the creatures slowly faded away. Only ashes remained behind.

The house barely survived, so Harry waved his wand to banish the rest of the flames. The charred remnants of the building sadly gazed at them with hollow windows.

When Harry cast a glance at the girls, he was relieved to find out that Hermione, ever the clever and practical one, had grabbed Malfoy and cast a protective shield over them, which the others helped maintain. Rowle whimpered on the ground, drained from the terror and their previous duel. The edges of his robes smoked where the Fiendfyre had caught him.

" _Incarcerus_!" Harry shouted before Rowle gathered his wits to restart the fight. Invisible binds tied the man up. "Now let's drink a tasty potion. It's called Polyjuice. I guess you've got an idea of what it does, Rowle?"

Harry took the flask from Susan and waved it in front of the instructor.

"You filthy little bastardly traitor!" Rowle growled. "What your parents have done isn't enough for you, eh? You're going to whore yourself out to the Resistance just like them, after all that our side has done for you-"

He didn't finish; Harry shoved the Polyjuice down the man's throat in one swift motion, clutching his nose so that Rowle would gulp the liquid down. After a gurgle his features transformed, and voila – Harry stared at the glowering eyes of Edgar Bones.

"Polyjuice is really one of the best productions of wizards," Harry muttered to himself, marvelling at the swift transformation.

"It's my turn now," Susan said behind him. Harry turned around, surprised to find her determined despite the grief that haunted her eyes.

"If you want it so," he easily agreed and stepped aside. "Do you know how to do it?"

"I- Not really." Susan's gaze drifted away from him. Fear painted her face white. "I've never killed anyone before."

Harry smiled in understanding. It was a real smile in many ways, since she reminded him so much of himself some time ago that he empathised with her. Too much, for his liking.

"I have to bring the head to the Dark Lord. He loves his trophies, supposedly."

He advanced forward, ignoring Hermione's stare and Hannah's – who looked like herself again now that an hour had passed – gasp of fear, and dug out a sharp blade from the folds of his robes. He wasn't stingy. Not if he lent it for such a noble goal.

Susan stared at his outstretched hand with terror. Harry sighed. Took a step forward.

"It is done like this," Harry murmured almost tenderly as he wrapped his fingers around Susan's, both clenching the handle with different emotions and different levels of resolution. Susan's hand shook under his.

"You bring it down, you thrust it in-" He directed her hand in the air. "-and you slash. See? Not very hard, is it now?"

The girl nodded and, arming herself with resolve, marched towards Rowle, who attempted to inch away from the looming death in her pale face.

She thrust it in and slashed, very obedient. Harry knew he bagged himself another one there; a nice fledgling pawn who would be his spy amongst spies in that game of non-existent loyalties. A plea faded from Rowle's lips with his last breath, his soul bleeding out of his mouth and throat along with red liquid. The light in his eyes diminished. It had never been a pretty pair of eyes, anyway.

Silence stretched until a retching sound broke it. Harry whipped his head to observe Hannah dropping to her knees and heaving, her entire body in trembles.

Weak. Disgustingly weak.

After his blade had sunk into Greyback's flesh, he hadn't vomited once.

Light Arts granted power, but what good did it do when Light softies failed all the tests of deserving to wield it?

"Monster…" Hannah sobbed, her face covered with her hands, letting only the sound through. The stench of nausea lingered in the air and mixed with the stink of ashes. "You're a monster…"

"You are a Death Eater; get used to it," Harry said callously to her. He didn't care much about keeping up the pretences for now since no one of the people present would breathe a word of his slip. "Let's implant false memories into Malfoy, bring the anti-Apparition wards down, get Row- Edgar's head, and get the hell out of here."

At his cold look even Hannah picked herself from the ground and complied.

* * *

Eventually, only Harry and Hermione were left. Malfoy had gone 'fixing his hair' while Susan had carried Edgar to where she was supposed to, and Hannah had fled his presence as soon as possible. Ah, how idyllic.

"You looked a lot like Voldemort there," Hermione interrupted his contemplation of the broken home. "Are you sure you hate him?"

"Believe me, Hermione, my feelings towards him are as burning as the oven of a crematorium," Harry soothed her with a bitter half-smile. The girl – the young woman, really – regarded him closely.

"You lied to me," she suddenly said. He had expected it.

Harry tilted his head and searched her eyes for a hint of betrayal swimming in them. He found a tiny trace, but reproach and sadness overpowered it.

_Oh my, it seems like today is the day of revelations, is it? Although... from the very beginning I was planning on the Order to find out about my loyalties._ _Or what my loyalties_ _are supposed_ _to be- Anyway, they're aware of my enmity towards Voldemort, and everything else doesn't matter_ _._

"I'm as clear as a baby's tear," he still tried. Unsuccessfully.

"You aced that Human Transfiguration – and during all our lessons you never showed more promise than a lovechild of Crabbe and Goyle!" Hermione accused, even going as far as poke a finger at him. "And right now- You never employed Light Arts in a duel before!"

Harry clucked his tongue. "Of course I didn't. I'm not so stupid as to flaunt my heritage in front of Voldemort's cronies for no reason other than to show off. Show off until they cart me off to Bella for homeschooling and instilling 'proper values into my worthless traitorish hide', more like."

Hermione closed her mouth.

"Oh. It slipped my mind."

She threw him a sharp look still, though, for his earlier performance with Susan but didn't ask for the details.

Harry, at the same time, felt relieved.

So, they didn't know  _everything_ , didn't know about his scheming and the ability to manipulate. Moreover, his exposure today – and he had no doubt that Hermione would be reporting most of it – would entrust him to them, painting him in a good light if he was willing to 'betray' Death Eaters and his guardian's chums for the Resistance's sake. Of course, they might also know that the reason was not the Greater Good or some higher purpose but a 'petty' revenge… but details, details, details.

"Why didn't the Order arrive?" An idea popped into his mouth and he balled his hands into fists. "It was a test, wasn't it? A test of how far I'm willing to go and how much and many I'm willing to betray to help your people-"

"It was necessary!" Hermione screamed back at him. A few pale tears appeared in her eyes and she didn't blink them away. "Do you think I  _liked_  watching it? Liked having no means to help that poor woman and no means to help Susan who is one of the few people not looking down on me? Do you think it's easy?  _Enjoyable_ , maybe?"

Hermione panted after her tirade, her cheeks a dark red colour.

"You still did it," Harry reminded her.

"Yes," she whispered. "There wasn't any other choice for me. If I refused to stand aside this time, they would have forced me into a similar mission the next. This one is already a punishment… Nowadays they say we have to be ruthless, just like Voldemort, to topple him in this war."

Harry tilted his head, his long hair falling into his face like a curtain, which prevented from reading his emotions.

He didn't understand the purpose of following in the enemy's footsteps to defeat him. Didn't it destroy the entire reason of having two sides, this similarity between them?

Well, Harry didn't share either party's beliefs, so he guessed such matters shouldn't bother to him. He had one job: thrust in and slice. Reverse order was possible.

"Do you truly believe you can win with ruthlessness and brute strength?" Harry's voice trailed off into a murmur full of recollection. "The Dark Lord is tricky. It's not about brute force only, not really. Goyle is powerful, but do you see him enthroned? It's all about allure and charm, too. He can weave ornaments with words that enchant more than a siren's song. An Imperius without the incantation."

Her forehead scrunched up. "You seem to hold him in high esteem."

"Hostility and hate never exclude admiration," Harry replied quietly. He hated the truth in those words.

_And everything is so tangled in my mind that I don't know when one starts and the other ends._

_But I'll never forgive him for his words._

* * *

_Little Harry wiped his nose with a sleeve of his expensive robe, purposely_ _spreading the snot across the material._ _If he saw a chance for any little nastiness, he executed it,_ _just_ _to see them fume at his 'barbaric' manners and 'repulsive' behaviour_ _._ _Then they – his tutors and stuck-up blokes his father had gossiped about – berated him_ _loudly_ _and_ _insistently_ _, but Harry went into trance for the entire length of the preaching harangue: he didn't understand half the fancy words they threw anyway_ _._

_Bella was the worst though._ _She had insisted he call her 'mummy' once but he had spat at her with such ferocity that she never dared to mention that again_ _._

_His first acquaintance with a real punishment had happened around those times, too, come to think of it… well, Harry didn't dwell on such matters. Punishments were too raw of a subject for him._

_And he didn't understand how those 'duel' thingies differed from punishments. Bella cast curses on him in one case and cast curses on him in the other case. See? No difference at all._

_Merlin, he hated her._

_Some other people, too, bore the target of his intense emotion. He hadn't found out the name of one of them yet, but knew of the others. And, of course, he knew about Voldemort._ _The Dark Lord instilled fear in everyone when they weren't too busy lusting after or fawning over him like half Bella's cohorts did_ _._ _Voldemort-worshipping was very much in vogue, and Harry even sometimes felt inadequate that he couldn't bear such intense love towards the man_ _._

_He didn't hate him as much as he did Bella._ _Just_ _slightly_ _. His mum had told him – or his father?_ _Harry always forgot such unimportant facts when he eavesdropped – that rulers had to commit ghastly deeds for the greater good of all involved_ _. Harry didn't understand the greater good in his parents' death but the Dark Lord had to know better, right?_

_And then he glimpsed Him and knew whom he could ask._

_Of course, he had to find out the answer_ _directly_ _!_

_Voldemort looked rather irked, like usual, and very busy._ _He stalked the corridors of Lestrange Manor_ _expertly_ _, knowing every tiny detail of the house, and Harry hardly kept up_ _._

" _Sir! Hey, Sir Dark Lord sir, could you please answer a question?"_

_Voldemort stopped, his eyebrows exploring the highest points of his forehead as if he didn't believe that the snotty tiny thing dared address him. "And do you know who I am, brat?"_

" _Lord Voldemort, the Dark Lord, of course," Harry said, now full of doubt._ He _never asked others who he was. Was it a Dark Lordly-thing? "And it's because you're him, I'd like to ask you a question... how did you feel about my parents deaths? Were you sorry to have killed them?"_

_A veneer of ice covered Voldemort's eyes._

" _Nothing," he told Harry_ _coldly_ _. "I felt_ _absolutely_ _nothing. Stop pestering me with infantile questions and get lost. Don't pester me with such trivial matters ever again."_

_He walked away, but the cold still lingered. It seeped into Harry's body and took over his heart and his mind and his goals._

_Fine. Perfect, in fact. It was making things so much easier for Harry. No more of his dilemma._

_If he couldn't love Voldemort like other citizens, he would hate him like no other person._

* * *

Rowle's head hung from Harry's hand as he strolled the halls of Slytherin Manor in search of the Dark Lord. In the absence of an instructor it was his job as a squad leader to report, even if he was just a beginner in his role. Tired of searching for the man throughout the public parts of the castle (and Harry knew the red-eyed menace hid on purpose, since the wards must have notified him of Harry's arrival ages ago), he called for a house elf.

"Master is dining with Lords and Ladies in the Map Dining-room," the creature squeaked. "Does Mister Potter wish to join them?"

Harry didn't want to contemplate why the house elf knew his name. Not right now, at least.

"Uh, no, I'll drop by sometime later then, when the Dark Lord is finished-"

Harry didn't have the time to finish his phrase because the elf grabbed his head-free hand in determination, and the wizard was travelling through a second-long whirlwind of colours. When he opened his eyes, he inwardly groaned at the sight that greeted him.

He appeared in a vast dining hall with a Hogwartsian ceiling and most remarkable walls: every inch of them was covered with a map of sorts, a map of a city or a country, or the world; some old, some new; some moving and almost liquid and some static like muggle photographs; all of different colours from yellowish beige to bright blue to azure of a shade which rivalled the enchanted skies above.

The table in the middle of the room astounded with its length; Harry had a bizarre feeling that guests sitting on the opposite sides would have to shout or use voice-enforcing charms to be heard. It was set rather practically, too, with hardly any decorations except for small black candles with circles of pomegranate seeds around them.

Yet, Harry didn't worry about the decorations.

As if dealing with one monster wasn't enough, he had to get into a roomful of them. Harry felt like a Red-Riding Hood, and no, he didn't enjoy the comparison.

Bella, who sat on Voldemort's left opposite Lucius, cackled when she saw him standing stiffly in his dirtied robes and with a head in hand. Other's reactions weren't quite so favourable: Lucius thinned his lips in disgust, Rodolphus turned away, Rabastan snorted, the Nott couple gasped…

And the Dark Lord…

Voldemort simply leaned back in his seat and turned to his snake who coiled around his shoulders, petting her scales with his long fingers.

"Oh, look, Nagini; Mr Potter is so gracious as to bring a treat for you."

The snake slithered towards him like an eager puppy, while Harry stepped back.

"My Lord, it's Edgar Bones's head-"

Voldemort waved an impatient hand. "Yes, yes, exactly what I say: a treat for Nagini." A mocking smirk tugged at his lips. "If I truly collected all the body parts of my slain enemies, my manor would not have the room for me to sleep and eat."

Harry tossed the head to Nagini who lunged at it with her maws wide open, and watched dispassionately as the snake devoured the man. If snakes could purr and/or smirk, this one bloody would.

_Just_ _the show I'd love to see while eating._

"Well, bon appétit, My Lord, I don't want to intrude-"

Yet, when Harry shifted his gaze to the Dark Lord, his eyes clashed with crimson ones devouring him. He stiffened. Did the man know? What if he had found out about the deception or-

"Say, child, would you like to join us for dinner? This is not a suggestion."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Reviews are always appreciated ;)
> 
> By the way, from this chapter onwards there will be a lot of Voldemort and a lot of time-skips. Not necessarily in this order.


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